


Foreigner's God

by randombitsofcheese



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Character Study, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friendship/Love, Mild canon divergence, Physical Abuse, Political Intrigue, Sarcastic Inquisitor, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trigger Warnings, Unreliable Narrator, character flaws
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:30:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randombitsofcheese/pseuds/randombitsofcheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Evelyn Trevelyan has terrible people skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted the beginning chapters of this fic a while back, but have since made some major changes in order to fall more in line with the story I wanted to tell. Furthermore, the publication date on this story has changed as well, to reflect the major updates.
> 
> If you are coming back to this story after having read those original chapters, I would highly recommend re-reading so you aren't confused. Sorry for the inconvenience!

Evelyn is sent away from the Ostwick estate at thirteen years old, skinny-limbed and irrepressibly stubborn.

The knife-eared servants pack her trunks into the wheel house while she paces tight circles on the lawn, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away, and they drip down onto the bodice of her dress, soaking the silk clean through.

“Please, I don’t want to go! Don’t make me!  _Please._ ” Evelyn begs through heavy sobbing.

When she had envisioned this scenario earlier, Evelyn had decided she was going to explain the facts of her argument _reasonably_. She was going to tell her parents that the Chantry could not possibly need another sister that badly. She was going to point out how hideous those sunburst robes were, and that she could not possibly be expected to wear them for the rest of her life. She was going to remind them of her status as a Trevelyan, one of _them_ , and shouldn’t that account for something when they decided whether to ship her off across a whole continent?

But then it actually comes time to open her mouth and a fit of incoherent wailing emerges from her lips instead.

While Evelyn is surprised by the vehemence of her own resistance, her family seems to find this course of events entirely predictable. They have lined up outside the manse for propriety’s sake, never straying from their duty to noble etiquette, but are all of them studious in their effort not to directly acknowledge her.

Her siblings have always been exceptionally good at playing stupid games like this, at pretending to live in a world of make-believe where Evelyn doesn’t exist, and their only problems are each other.

Lorraine is expert at maintaining that expressionless poise befitting an eldest child, more distracted by her brothers’ irreverence than Evelyn’s whining; the two of them slouch defiantly by the door under the porch’s overhang, ready to make their escape at the nearest opportunity, instead of posing neatly behind Lorraine as they should have. Olivia watches the silent disagreement between her elder siblings with the attitude of a bored politician—vaguely polite and completely detached—and not so much as glancing Evelyn’s way.

Their parents, on the other hand, are far less practiced at finding avenues of distraction from Evelyn’s outbursts, and their patience is clearly stretched thin. Lady Trevelyan’s upper lip is curled back into a twitching sneer, her fingers tapping impatiently on the porch railing. Lord Trevelyan is stiffly erect beside her, busying himself with snapped orders at the knife-ears who load Evelyn’s luggage far too slowly for his taste.

It is strange, watching them channel their annoyance elsewhere when they would usually deal with her directly. It would be a blessing under normal circumstances, an opportunity to take hold of herself and act dignified, but right now she is being shipped away, and maybe if they would just take a little bit of notice ( _any_ kind of notice) it wouldn’t hurt so much.

Evelyn isn’t invisible, and she works hard to remind herself of this fact.  _She is not_ _invisible._

“You can’t make me go.” Evelyn sobs desperately, “I won’t. This isn’t fair! I’ll run away and become a bandit and ruin our name. I hate this family, and I hate the  _Maker_  for putting me here. May He and Andraste rot in the Black City.”

It isn’t until the entire yard goes still that her brain catches up with her words, and Evelyn gasps. Lord Trevelyan’s face contorts in rage and Lady Trevelyan slowly flexes her hands. _Oh no—_ she shouldn’t have _—oh, Maker, please, no._

Evelyn meets her father’s livid gaze, silently pleading, but he whirls—Evelyn’s siblings flattening themselves against the side of the house to get out of his way—and disappears into the house. The door slams behind him, bouncing back off of the frame.

Her mother is more contained, but no less forceful in her authority. She steps down from the porch with slow measure and crooks a finger at her youngest.

Evelyn shakes her head  _no_ , refusing to budge an inch until her mother crosses the yard and takes her wrist in hand. The grip cuts off the circulation to Evelyn’s fingers. She drags Evelyn around the manor and into the back garden until they are hidden behind an old wisteria tree.

“You will not speak blasphemy against the Maker, you  _foolish_  girl.” Lady Trevelyan says in a quiet tone that belies the iron in her grasp, “The Trevelyans have served the Maker faithfully for generations, and we all play our roles in this, regardless of personal desire. The Bann of Ostwick—your father now and someday your eldest sister—rules over our holding with a firm hand guided by His will. Your brothers will serve our Maker on the battlefield, striking down those who would oppose His word. Your other sister will maintain a presence at court to ensure His influence among the wealthy and powerful.”

Her mother pauses when they hear the back door of the house swing open and shut.

“And you. Our irreverent last child. You will serve at the Maker’s side as a Chantry sister. You will spread His word to the masses. You will act as a pillar of devotion in the community. You will lead by pious example.”

Lord Trevelyan’s brisk steps click against the brickwork of the garden path, bringing him into view as he joins them beneath the dappled light of swaying branches. Though the initial fury has cooled from his face, his knuckles are white around the sturdy birch switch that usually rests on the mantle of the library fireplace.

Evelyn feels her body trembling.

“That is your duty to the Maker. It is what you owe Him and it is not a choice, now or ever.”

“Kneel,” her father says, and Evelyn does, fixing her gaze up on the hanging purple flowers above her and bracing her hands against the rough bark. Her body tenses and jerks when she hears the whistle and  _thwap_  of the stick between her shoulder blades. An involuntary rasping whimper escapes her.

Lady Trevelyan continues her speech as though without interruption. “You  _will_ go to Tantervale. You  _will_  serve the Trevelyan name. And you  _will_  rid yourself of this streak of headstrong resistance. We have had enough of it.”

Evelyn’s mother carefully times her words so that they might be heard between the cracking blows. The last comes after she finishes the lecture, hard enough to knock the breath from Evelyn’s lungs, and louder than any of the others—loud enough to scare birds from their nests in the branches above them.

“Show me you understand your duty to the Maker and this family. Recite the Canticle of Transfigurations and repent.”

“Th-these truths the Maker has revealed to m-me: as there is but one world, one life, one d-d-death, there is but one god, and He is our...our Maker…” In shaking breaths, Evelyn ignores the scorching burn on her back and utters the words of the Chant. She knows them so well that they are practically etched inside her eyelids.

Later, Evelyn’s mother ushers her into the wheel house. Her father is nowhere to be seen, but her siblings still watch from the awning. They are more alert now, at risk of suffering the blowback from their parents’ anger. How much they must resent Evelyn for it.

The space between her shoulder blades is still hot and stinging, and she has to curl up in a ball over her knees to prevent her back from bumping against the side canopy. Several knife-ears climb in with her, plainly dressed women who keep their eyes averted to their feet at all times, appropriate to their station.

Two of her father’s retainers mount their enormous black coursers and flank the wagon. Their faces are mostly covered by sharply angled helmets, but Evelyn can see one of them frowning at her through his eye slit with something like sympathy.

“Remember: Modest in temper.” Lady Trevelyan says through her teeth. Funny how Evelyn has never been told to be  _bold in deed_ , though that is undoubtedly the second half of their family motto.

The wagon jolts forward, and Evelyn focuses hard on the toes of her slippers and not the way her stomach tries to climb up out of her throat.

In Ostwick, Evelyn is secure in her knowledge of how to retaliate against her brothers’ jibes (honey trickled into Jean’s pillowcase to attract ants, and yellow mustard smeared on the back of Remy’s pale breeches), and which trees are best to climb when she needs to avoid a switching (the giant oaks lining the estate grounds camouflage her perfectly with their thick waxy leaves and clumps of Antivan moss). There is no such familiarity in the outside world, and it could hardly be kinder than the people who share her blood. Undoubtedly it will be worse.

The only thing keeping Evelyn from flinging herself out of the wagon and into the western forest is the thought that the Maker watches. She tells Him she is sorry for saying what she said, and _please don’t rot on your throne next to Andraste._ She prays for His strength and reassurance.

As usual, she receives no answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Chapter RE-WRITTEN as of 6/30/2015****
> 
> The funny thing about this chapter is how short it is relative to the amount of trouble it's given me. I have found myself constantly going back to rearrange it, and for this I owe my readers a huge apology. Rest assured, the main points have remained the same, so please don't worry about re-reading it. I am so so sorry for my anal-retentive nature.


	2. Chapter 2

Evelyn returns after little more than a decade, carrying a letter sealed with the Tantervale Chantry crest:

_To Lord and Lady Trevelyan,_

_I am aware that you have long cherished high hopes for your daughter’s success within the Chantry hierarchy. We all did, for it is rare to come across one so naturally well-bred to the task as your own noble stock. I regret to inform you, however, that her continued education in pursuit of this goal will no longer be possible in Tantervale._

_When we received your first correspondence requesting our reception of your daughter all those years ago, we were more than eager to oversee the education of a young lady from the Trevelyan line. Your family has ever been highly regarded among the Chantry as a particularly devoted house of the Free Marches. It was our expectation that your daughter would act in the same exemplary manner as all generations of Trevelyans before her._

_This notion, as you well know, was quickly dispelled in the months following her arrival._ _Scarcely a month has gone by that I have not written to you of her exploits. I still recall—vividly—that incident some years ago involving the frankly alarming number of painted nugs found wandering the Chantry courtyard. The smell of their waste still lingers over the stonework today._

_We of the Tantervale Chantry have tolerated this kind of questionable behavior over the years, always in the hope that she might one day reform to a proper way of thinking, but now we have finally hit upon the problem that cannot be waved away by our patient sisters or remedied through the Chant of Light’s gentle guidance (nor even the most generous donation from the Trevelyan coffers)._

_You must be wondering by now, what she possibly could have done this_   _time, to have garnered enough censure among our community to eject her. After all, we have accepted your daughter’s oddities out of respect to the Trevelyan name in the past. And we must accept that we are all imperfect beings. Mistakes are inevitable and ought to be forgiven by the Chantry. Without mistakes, we learn nothing (and I am sure your daughter has learned_   _much_ _these past years)._

_The problem, my Lord and Lady, is that Evelyn’s belief in the Maker wavers._

_At first I thought that perhaps she was going through a phase of malcontent. It is not uncommon for initiates to question their place within the Chantry. She would spend hours at a time locked away in the Chantry archives, reading distinctly non-religious texts from Par Vollen, Nevarra, Tevinter, etc. At night, she would leave our sanctuary, going Maker knows where, not returning until the early morning hours._

_I accepted these behaviors for a time, but then she fell silent during the Chant of Light, stopped attending most of our daily services, ceased giving prayer at meals (whether she continued saying them in private, I know not, but I sincerely doubt it). Once, I even observed her advising a young man to keep his alms, if you can believe it!_

_I came to the end of my rope when I came upon her locked in a debate with our good Sister Millicent one day, arguing over the truths set forth by Chantry tradition._

_I asked her, “Child, what is the truth of the world, if not the one set forth by the Maker and his Bride?”_

_She answered, “Who knows? But there is a world beyond the Chantry, wholly untouched by your Maker.”_

_Your_   _Maker, she said. As if he were not_   _hers_   _as well_.

—Here, there is an irregular break on the page, as if the writer had stepped away for a time to master themselves. Evelyn suspects that the woman had demanded her smelling salts, as she often did in her fits of drama.—

 _I said, “Sister, surely you know that there is no corner of the world unseen by_ _our_   _Maker.”_

_She replied, “Mother, I know that there is no corner of the world seen by your Maker, for he exists not at all.”_

_And when I advised her to consult the Chant of Light for guidance, she turned on her heel without acknowledging my words and walked away._

_We cannot house someone who is not fully dedicated to serving at the Maker’s side in this time of turmoil. Not when there are so many others who would think the title of Sister a gift, rather than a burden. So you see I have no choice but to send Evelyn back to your familial holdings in Ostwick._

_I would add here, mayhap to soften the blow, that Evelyn is not necessarily a wicked or corrupt young woman—simply_ _misguided in her endeavors. You may take heart in this knowledge, for it means that your situation is not entirely without hope._

_With your guidance, I am sure that your daughter can find her way back to a holy path at the Maker’s side. It is of utmost importance, in fact, that you encourage her in this matter. The sake of her soul and more importantly, if I may be so bold, the sake of your family’s reputation depends on it._

_When she begins her faith anew, I am confident that she would be allowed re-entrance into the ranks of the Chantry. Though perhaps it might be wiser to keep her close within the Ostwick Chantry where you might watch over her more closely._

_With the Humblest Respect,_

_Revered Mother Dimia of Tantervale_

Evelyn, for one, is entirely insulted by Dimia's depiction of her conversational skills. Surely she doesn't come off as so utterly boring? And Evelyn certainly doesn’t employ the clumsy speaking patterns of an overly sanctimonious Chantry windbag.

Needless to say, the rest of the Trevelyan family is completely livid for entirely different reasons.

In the time since she has returned home, Evelyn’s mornings have gone thusly:

She is roused from sleep before the sun’s rise by the knock of her lady’s maid at the door. Regardless of Evelyn's response to the disturbance (generally sullen muteness), the woman enters, crossing the room to the windows and pulling back the heavy curtains to reveal the darkness of early morning. She approaches the bed with a bowl of thick porridge or bread and cheese, and says, “My lady, your mother awaits you in the main hall.”

Despite her reluctance to get out of bed, Evelyn does her best to remain passably civil to the woman. She can remember a time when she had blithely addressed the household staff as  _knife-ear_  and _you there_. Oddly enough though, they look more askancenow when Evelyn calls them _ma’am_.

Her lady’s maid assists her in changing out of her nightgown, swathing her in loose Chantry robes rather than the proper noble dress Evelyn had worn as a girl. Evelyn glowers at the cloth in the mirror while the woman drapes the long embroidered sash over her shoulders, always with the thought that even a potato sack would be superior.

When her lady’s maid finishes adjustments to Evelyn’s appearance, she leads Evelyn through the halls by candlelight, walking ahead with gentle steps that won’t disturb those who still sleep in the household. Evelyn only barely represses her urge to stamp her feet as she follows behind, finding it particularly difficult as they descend the stairs of the grand foyer and her mother comes into view, stock still and stern.

It is always startling to see Lady Trevelyan’s face these days, so changed from its youthful beauty. Evelyn’s mother had never been soft, of course, but the intervening years have made her harder still. The wrinkles on her brow and at the corners of her eyes suggest cruel iron, and the sharp lines of her hands are even more apparent, sinewy tendons emphasized beneath tightly clinging skin. Her mouth presses thin, an angry slash across her face.

There is a kind of twisted satisfaction in seeing her age so harshly.

“Good morning.” her mother always says curtly.

“Good morning.” Evelyn always says with flat obedience.

The first time this routine started, Evelyn had not deigned to reply at all, resulting in a shooting pain across her cheek. The welts from her mother’s sharp nails had healed quickly, but they were more than enough to help Evelyn re-learn the value of complicity in the Trevelyan household where she had forgotten.

After exchanging icy civilities, they depart the estate for the Ostwick Chantry.

They sit through the early morning service, out of place among the laborers and fishermen of the city.

In the hour between services, they remain in the pews. Lady Trevelyan sits on the bench, arms folded, while Evelyn kneels and recites sections of the Chant. The floor is paved with uneven stone and Evelyn's knees take on a permanent ache after only a week.

Then they sit through the late morning service, surrounded by merchants and other Marcher nobility. It is among these worshippers that Evelyn is recognized. The curiosity sparks behind their eyes, and she can almost hear the mutters of speculation about her sudden return to Ostwick.

Her mother’s sharp eyes are glued on Evelyn through all of it, making sure that she participates when the songs swell up. Evelyn pastes a smile on her lips and mouths empty words about a merciful Maker.

While her body makes the motions, Evelyn thinks of the forest and the sea surrounding Ostwick. The forest outside of the city is merely a prelude to the Vimmark Mountains, edges rather tame, but it is said that great bears and giants live further on within its depths. The sea is far below the sheer cliff face on which the city resides. The jump is enough to break all a person’s bones, even if they don’t hit the sharp rocks at the bottom. Evelyn wonders to which of these she will surrender, when she can’t hold her tongue any longer.

=== === ===

It takes another week of force-fed religious devotion before the strict regimen is disturbed. Lady Trevelyan nods to Evelyn to signal their departure following a late morning service, but the Grand Cleric herself approaches them as they exit the pews.

“Lady Guinevere,” Grand Cleric Maria smiles at Evelyn’s mother. “I am so very glad to see you and your daughter in the Maker’s house. You have been so dedicated in your attendance this past month.”

Despite the gentle praise in the cleric’s words, there is also an obscured tone of knowing interest. How highly unusual she must find it to see two entitled nobles attend the services more than twice a week, even being from a most devoted and traditional house.

Lady Trevelyan undoubtedly catches the implication, and her answering smile is wan where Maria’s is warm. “Evelyn has returned to us out of homesickness, but it seems she cannot help but devote her time to the Maker. She is insistent that we attend twice a day,” a false laugh is inserted here, “She would come in the evening too, if I let her.”

“Indeed?” Grand Cleric Maria replies.

“I grew used to the regular sermons while I was in Tantervale. Mother has been very supportive in my continued interest in Chantry affairs.” Evelyn chooses her words cautiously, gauged to her mother’s desire. She receives only a terse nod for the effort. 

“I see. Then perhaps you might be interested in continuing your service under the Ostwick Chantry.” Maria says.

Evelyn looks at the Grand Cleric blankly, unable to force the right lines out of her mouth.

“Very much so,” Her mother says for her, and it takes great inner strength for Evelyn to refrain from rolling her eyes.

“We are looking for volunteers to join our company at Justinia’s Conclave—a prestigious opportunity for any young sister, with the possibility of meeting the Divine herself.”

“I don’t think—” Evelyn starts, forgetting herself, but her mother's fingernails bring a sharp twinge on the inside of her wrist. 

“Lady Evelyn,” the Grand Cleric says, at the same time gentle and prodding, “the Conclave is thus far the best option to facilitate peace between mages and templars. Songs and books will be written of this day. Surely you see value in attending, even despite your homesickness?”

Evelyn blinks at the Grand Cleric slowly, swallowing what she wants to say about _value_ and _the_ _Chantry’s lack thereof._

“We both do.” Lady Trevelyan says, “But if my Evelyn were to show such dedication as to leave home just after returning to us… Surely that would be a calling beyond a mere Chantry  _initiate_.”

Ah yes, there it is: her mother’s special brand of delicate political maneuvering. No one escapes the grand Trevelyan plan, and Evelyn is going to live and die within the Chantry if her mother has to pry a title from Andraste’s cold, dead fingers.

The really odd thing though is Maria’s apparent eagerness to have her. There is no way on this side of the Veil that the sisters of Tantervale haven’t warned the Grand Cleric of Evelyn's follies, so she must really want something (and surely not to save Evelyn’s soul, for who truly cares about such a thing?).

Perhaps she is looking for noble patronage—a new prayer wing generously paid for in Trevelyan coin.

“That is certainly something to discuss, Lady Guinevere.” Maria says behind another warm smile. Evelyn looks for the twist that will give it away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Chapter RE-WRITTEN as of 2/10/2015, LAST EDITED as of 6/30/2015****


	3. Chapter 3

“…not going to last much longer anyway,” a man hisses. It’s so faint that Evelyn is sure that her brothers have been stuffing cotton in her ears so she’ll miss the house breakfast bell again.

 _Maker’s balls,_ she thought they had outgrown this crap.

“Lady Cassandra commanded—” another voice, deeper than the first, begins, but is cut off immediately.

“Dunno if you  _noticed_ , but the blighted world is coming to an end! Dead Divine, hole in the sky, demons everywhere, and you still want to take orders from that bloody-minded Seeker!  _I_ say—”

“Wolesly.” a third man intones with terse authority, “Enough. I’ll have no more of your nonsense.”

Their volume is slowly but steadily increasing, assuring Evelyn that her ears are not in fact filled with cotton rolls. She does, however, have to wonder what these imbeciles are doing in her chambers. Just as she decides to sit up and give them a piece of her mind, Evelyn realizes that she is already upright, curled over her knees, and not in a bed at all.

“Shove it,” the first voice snaps, “We shan’t just sit here and wait while we have the end-bringer bound in chains before us, just because some high-handed Chantry bitch with shiny armor told us to. We’s got to do somethin _’._ ”

The harsh ring of drawn metal grates on Evelyn’s ears, followed immediately by more of the same, and _shit,_ her ears are practically bleeding. She would cover them if she could just remember how to move.

Is she hungover? That might explain why she can’t seem to remember where she is or how she got here, at least.

“Sheath your weapon, Corporal! When Seeker Pentaghast gives an order, we follow it.”

Evelyn manages to peel her eyes open just as the other grumbles his answer, and then all she can register is shooting pain. It’s her  _hand—_ _a_ flaring gash of sick green light striped across her palm, vibrating so violently that her teeth rattle. Some irresistible, malevolent force is trying to suck her innards out through her palm. Evelyn tries to cry out for help— _anyone, please!—_ but only a fluting gasp hisses out of her throat.

The pain passes as suddenly as it came, all that agony fit within the space of a bare moment. It leaves her breathless and hunched over, pressing her face into the tight metal braces binding her wrists together. Evelyn stares dumbly between the flickering tear in her palm and the rusted shackles. The cogs whir in her head, trying to click something into place, but before she can get anywhere beyond the realm of _well this is not good,_ there is a loud _bang,_ and her spine snaps straight as a rod.

Twin shadows stalk in through a large iron door in front of her, passing around the edge of a loose semi-circle of armored men, who have apparently had Evelyn surrounded, swords drawn, this entire time.

“You.” one of the shadows says, stalking into the torchlight and illuminating the steely features of a woman holds herself as tautly as a feral dog. Evelyn has to forcibly stop herself from shrinking inward.

“Yes. How ever did you guess that _you_ was my name?” Evelyn deadpans.

“Is this a joke to you?”

“To what are you referring?” Evelyn says, “Your idea of hospitality? I suppose it is amusing in an ironic sense, considering that I haven’t done anything wrong.”

There is a dagger at her throat faster than she can blink, pressing mercilessly into the fragile skin at her pulse—as ready to open Evelyn’s vein as a Chantry sister’s cane is ready to smack a wrist for insubordination. Of course, bleeding out from your artery is definitely more serious, as consequences for sass go. 

“You know exactly why you are being treated thusly, you little—”

Evelyn's new friend is possibly seconds away from slitting her jugular when the other shadow interrupts. “We need her, Cassandra.”

There is a long moment of hesitation, but Cassandra pulls the dagger away. A second woman joins her in the torchlight, peering out from beneath a hood with clever eyes. The hair on Evelyn’s neck prickles.

“Tell me, girl. Do you know why you are here?” the hooded woman says.

Evelyn thinks fast, reaching to find the answer, but only finding yawning blank spaces where her memories should be, broken only by vague impressions of fear washed over in fog—red eyes following her, too many to count—running through a maze of rock and grime—a glowing hand brushing desperately against her own. The images are like a children’s watercolor painting, oversaturated and difficult to suss out.

“No.” Evelyn shudders. “I don’t know.”

“You’re lying!” Cassandra snarls and the hooded woman has to physically hold her back.

“Control yourself, Cassandra. Honestly.”

“She is lying! She knows exactly what happened. What she did.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to get out of me, but I’ve got nothing to give you, so enough with the good-guard, bad-guard, prisoner baiting routine already. Just name the charges.” Evelyn says. Her parents are not going to like pulling her out of this one, whatever it is.

“You are accused of destroying the Conclave and murdering everyone in attendance, including the Divine." Castaneda says, barely controlled under layers of rage and accusation, "As you _well know_." 

Like someone has punched her in the chest, all of the air leaves Evelyn’s lungs.

"No,” Evelyn gasps, “that’s not right! How would that even happen?”

“The explosion that _you_ created.” Cassandra grits.

"All those... No! No. That wouldn’t happen. The Conclave was peace talk, not a war zone!”

Her hand flares up again, and it’s just like the first time, but also ten times worse. It’s fire and ice and drowning and being pulled from all sides at once. Evelyn doubles up over herself and clings to the hope that it will cease—that, just the like the first time, she can weather the storm.

It fades slowly. Evelyn unclenches her teeth and lets out a dull moan.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the Rift. Maker willing, that apostate is right about his theories.”

It takes tremendous energy to lift her head up to watch the hooded woman—Leliana—leave. Just her luck: Evelyn has been left with the angry, stabby one. Cassandra swiftly unbinds the shackles.

“You think I did this. To myself.” Evelyn mumbles through the last aftershocks of pain. Cassandra purses her lips into a thin line.

"I  _know_  you did."

Evelyn shakes her head helplessly.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You will see.” Cassandra pulls her to her feet and drags her through a dank hallway.

Numb horror floods Evelyn’s body at the sight of the Breach. She can hardly look away from it, even as she follows Cassandra through the camp and over heavily fortified bridges, past soldiers, and rows of the wounded (and dying and dead) lain on the ground, and clusters of the faithful praying with heads bowed.

The guard’s words in the cell hadn’t registered when she first heard them, but now they echo around Evelyn’s head in an endless loop— _the blighted world is coming to an end,_ _whispering over and over in her ear._ _She is caught in a nightmare._

 _None of it feels real until a sudden and jarring explosion of light sends them tumbling down from a bridge and into the frozen valley below. By some miracle, they are not buried in the rubble._ By some other, less charitable sort of miracle, two demons announce themselves not a spit’s distance away, crying out with unearthly shriek that claw underneath Evelyn’s skin and send her into a fit of shudders.

Cassandra recovers from their fall quickly, leaping forward with sword aloft to engage the demons, but Evelyn struggles to dislodge herself from the crumbled stonework, too well encumbered by the long skirt of her Chantry robes. Her panicked cursing is enough to draw the attention of one of the demons, and it lunges around Cassandra to get to her.

Evelyn spots a charred body close by, reaching out pitifully with its disfigured hand to a shortbow lying just out of its reach. She manages to dive out of the way of the demon’s claws, rolling to snatch the bow and its quiver off of the ground and back onto her feet. It is only by pure, fumbling luck that she manages to notch and loose an arrow just before the demon manages to rally.

It becomes a clumsy dance between them—Evelyn stumbling backwards and shooting, shooting again—and the demon swiping and missing, missing again. The twang of the recoiling bowstring against her unprotected forearm is grounding, each snap making Evelyn feel more real, present in reality, even as the shots are sloppy from adrenalin.

She gets close to wearing the demon dead, if for no other reason than the sheer number of arrows jutting from its puckered skin, when her supply runs dry. Her fingers clutch at empty air over her quiver's mouth, and the demon sees its opportunity. It streaks forward, close to the ground, aiming at her exposed belly.

Without thought, Evelyn grips the bow in both hands and whacks it over the demon’s head. The blow doesn’t do any real damage, but the demon is stunned long enough for Cassandra sprint in from the side and skewer it with her sword. Evelyn is splattered with the resulting ichor. She spits some of it from her mouth, pretending that it tastes like bad chicken and not rotting flesh in order to keep the contents of her stomach down.

“Where does a Chantry _sister_ learn to shoot?” Cassandra demands, unsheathing her sword from the demon’s chest cavity and holding it up to Evelyn’s chest in a silent threat.

“I’m not a…not in the Chantry.” Evelyn says. She lets her bow drop to the ground and holds up her hands up placatingly.

Cassandra looks sour. “No, keep it. I…cannot defend you. You will have a greater chance of making it through the valley with the bow.”

Evelyn (secretly relieved) picks the bow back up and collects the arrows from the demon’s body. Most of them are sticky and won’t notch well, but at this point she has to take what she can get.

“Your life is on the line, after all.” Cassandra sneers.

"How generous of you to notice." Evelyn says under her breath, as she gingerly tests the river ice and starts up a snowy slope.

The two of them fall into something like strategy as they encounter more demons, with Cassandra hacking up close and Evelyn climbing tall, rocky outcrops to shoot from a distance.

Between the skirmishes, progress is slow. The walk is cold and steep, and both of them heave with exhaustion. Evelyn’s Chantry robes are smattered in grime and the Breach doesn’t seem to be getting any closer.

She’ll die out here, at this rate.

Evelyn tries to remember if she's ever read how long it takes a body to decompose. Medical texts were never her area of interest, but she knows at least that she will eventually fade to bones and dust. The cold might slow that process down. Perhaps her body will even be found centuries from now, frozen and somewhat intact. Will the people who find Evelyn give her the proper funeral rights?

She doesn’t want to end up in an urn stacked away in some Chantry crypts, guarded by a host of Andraste’s loving (lying) stone statues. Let them scatter her ashes. It doesn’t even have to be somewhere special. _Please_ , just let them scatter her ashes far away from a Chantry.

The echoes of the world’s end ring through the valleys and cliffs. The jagged structure of the Frostback Mountains make the screams come from everywhere at once. There is nothing driving Evelyn forward except Cassandra’s pointed looks when Evelyn’s pace lags.

They stumble up a rickety stairway built into the side of the mountain.  Gusts of wind push them from behind, causing them to flail unartfully over the icy steps. Cassandra rights herself easily enough, but Evelyn flounders. 

“Faster! I hear fighting up ahead!” Cassandra says. She makes it to the top of the stairway first and shoots around the corner without so much as a glance backward.

"Thanks for the help.” Evelyn says caustically. Her limbs are heavy and numb with cold and her gasps are labored in the thin air.

She rounds the bend and the wound in her hand flares up again, but it’s different this time. The shooting pain that contracted her body before is replaced by an overwhelming magnetic draw, not so much painful as it is forceful, dragging her arm forward and up, so strongly that she fears she could be yanked from the ground. The source of the draw is a fluid green tear, undulating lazily in the air.

She doesn't know how long she stands there, frozen, staring up into that tear, until a voice cries “ _Quickly_!” into her ear. A hand wraps itself around her wrist and yanks, directing the glow in her hand to line up over the glow of the tear.

For a moment her palm obscures her sight of the rift, and it is almost like she is shielding her eyes from the sun on a bright day. A humming light connects to her glowing wound and she can feel the vibrations through her entire body. Evelyan pulls her hand back and strands of light drag with it, tugged along like the frayed ends of cloth.

The tear disintegrates and the momentary relief in her hand is exquisite, a cramped muscle finally allowed to relax. For a moment, she lets herself hope.

=== === ===

Evelyn chooses the mountain path just to be contrary—to force Cassandra to realize how stupid it is to put the fate of the world in the hands of someone she thinks is a vicious traitor—but there they go, joined by the elf and the dwarf, scaling the side of a cliff over creaking wood and slim ledges, even despite the clear disagreement written on Cassandra’s face.

“You must be an even bigger moron than I first thought.” Evelyn sneers over the buffeting wind.

“Keep walking, prisoner."

“Do you even know her name, Seeker?” their dwarf companion asks, “You used to have standards. Why, when you took  _me_  hostage, you were so much more thorough in your research. You read my books, stalked my friends. What’s next? Are you going to tell me you didn’t even threaten her  _once_ in a dark interrogation room?”

“Her name is irrelevant until she goes to trial.”

“Ooo, looks like you really got on the Seeker’s bad side, prisoner.” Varric laughs, “Well, I’ll bite on your riddle if she won’t. Why is the Seeker an even bigger moron than you thought?”

“Varric, do not encourage her.” Cassandra says through her teeth.

“It’s hardly a riddle, ser. I’m only pointing out the obvious. Anyone with a brain wouldn’t let the suspected mass murderer make a group decision.”

“Good point.” Varric says.

"It is not!” Cassandra snarls, “You are our only weapon against the Breach, and we are going there regardless of the path chosen. Your decision in the matter is ultimately irrelevant and that is why I allowed it.”

"Your soldiers are dying in the valley for us, so don’t tell yourself that my decision means nothing. You put me in front simply for the satisfaction of watching that Chantry bureaucrat’s head explode when you did it. So if this goes to shit, it’s on you.”

“Or perhaps you have led us astray on purpose, and you seek to blame me for your faults.” Cassandra counters, shoving Evelyn up a ladder from behind.

“Oh is that why you’re having me take the lead? So you can use my potential fuck-up as further evidence of my treason later?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You know what?” Evelyn reaches the top of the ladder. “If I was steering you wrong, you would deserve it.”

“Excuse me?” The Seeker says, close on Evelyn’s heels.

“Did you skip the section of your stupid Chantry rulebook that disavows apparent terrorists? Too busy beating your fat head against a wall to rid yourself of anything resembling rationality? That would certainly explain a lot.”

Cassandra grabs Evelyn by the collar and yanks her so they are toe to toe and nose to nose.

“Shut up and keep walking. Or so help me—”

“Oh,  _so_  sorry, serah. But since I'm apparently in charge now—”

“You are not in charge. I am.”

“Then don’t ever ask me,” Evelyn grits out, stabbing her finger ineffectually against Cassandra’s chestplate, “to make decisions that could get people killed.”

“Ladies,” Varric says before Cassandra can ram Evelyn to death with what must be an incredibly thick skull, “I hate to interrupt—because frankly, this is hilarious—but I think a ten-round death match will have to be put on hold for later.”

“There are much more pressing issues.” Solas adds, and his ears twitch minutely—the telltale sign of an irritated elf.

She and Cassandra separate, moving as far apart as the narrow ledge allows, and in spite of the Seeker's words, Evelyn is pushed to the front to lead again.

The journey through the cave path is a miserable blur, with biting cold air and thick infestations of demon spawn. And, joy of joys, Cassandra continues to be insufferable just by the nature of her very presence, huffing impatiently when Evelyn trips on her overlong robes and muttering darkly to herself.

Evelyn doesn’t know how long it takes them to make it through the cavern, but her first thought when they stumble out and down that last hill, is that the Temple of Ashes’ name has never seemed so apropos: the smell of burnt human flesh chokes her as they pass through the field of blackened corpses.

They enter the temple’s innermost remaining chamber just behind Leliana and her scouts. Cassandra greets the group, and the two Hands of the Divine speak in hushed whispers, purposefully beyond Evelyn’s hearing.

Evelyn can’t help but roll her eyes at their secrecy. Who cares? The hole in the sky is going to kill them all anyway.

Whirls of green clouds hover ominously directly overhead, but no demons infest the area. Calm in the eye of the storm. Evelyn glances up into the swirling abyss, and then everything…dulls. Her vision constricts. Her hand begins trembling in unending vibrations.

There is only a short moment to wonder what’s gone wrong _this time_ before the voices fill Evelyn’s mind to the brim, louder and louder, eating her other thoughts away. It’s like wading through swamp water, thick and useless.

A hand grabs her by the elbow, and she knows she must be moving, logically, because her legs are moving, but she doesn't have any conviction in that fact. Everything is narrowed down, too constant and still. The voices never waver.

Her feet stop. 

When did she get closer to the rift? The voices are louder here, more coherent, but she still can't understand their words.

There is a hand on Evelyn's shoulder in demand of something—an answer?

She can’t hear over the voices.

"I don't know," she says, “I don’t know.”

Does any noise come out of her mouth?

She doesn't know. The rift is too loud. She can’t think. Can’t think.

Stop— _please_ stop.

She reaches up to bat the voices away, and feels strange humming threads curl under her fingers instead. She takes them, because they are something she _can_ take, and she rips them down. Chaos erupts from the seams, but the voices go blessedly silent.

Under the roar of a demon and the shouts of soldiers, Evelyn stands in a daze, a fixed point in all the anarchy. Someone shoves her to the ground into a face full of dirt, and she feels awoken from a dream, reality catching up with her body.

She had seen herself come to the Divine in a memory—to save her from an unknown shadow—and then she had opened a fade rift instead of closing it like she was supposed to, starting a high-stakes demon battle underneath the breach in the razed innards of the Temple of Ashes.

For a moment, Evelyn considers staying down here in the loam until she is inevitably trampled underfoot. She knew she was going to die and this is the easy way to do it. She could just let it happen.

But then someone screams, and Evelyn sighs with deep exasperation.

She ripped the Veil open, so now she has to sew it back up. ( _Damn_ her morals for this.)

Evelyn pushes herself to her feet and stumbles around a dozen archers focusing their fire on the demon, to a spot directly underneath the rift, where no one takes notice of her. It is some small blessing that the demon and soldiers are so well distracted by each other, otherwise they might try to stop her.

Evelyn throws her hand up, binding herself to the rift in light. The voices swell again, but she shoves back at them this time, determined not to lose herself. If she can open this thing, she can close it too.

=== === ===

Evelyn opens her eyes. She is lying on her back on what is possibly a quilt. The ceiling is made of neatly fitted wooden planks. She is wearing ill-fitted trousers. All good signs pointing to  _not quite dead yet_.

The green cast of light that had washed over everything is gone, usurped by the flickering orange of a hearth fire and yellow rays of daylight. The room is messy with knick-knacks, chests, and scattered papers, but it’s not a dank jail cell. The guards are nowhere to be found—outside maybe?

Evelyn sits up in the bed and it takes a full minute for the room to stop spinning.

A crow squawks from a cage in the corner plaintively, until Evelyn feels pity enough to go over and let it loose. Instead of taking flight out the open window, it hops up onto the desk and nestles into the piles of loose papers.

They blink at each other for a moment, bird and human, equally bemused.

“Should I go then figure this business out, then?” she asks it stupidly, “Wouldn’t want to get in your way. I can see how busy you are.”

It squawks in agreement.

Evelyn walks over to the door and it opens to a blast of cold air and a horde of excited murmurs. When her eyes adjust to the brighter light, she realizes the source of the murmuring, and she has to slam the door closed against what is surely a horrible trick of the Fade.

She pinches herself to be sure, but when she opens the door again, it _is_  real: Dozens of people, lined up along the path leading from her little doorway, arms crossed over their chests reverently. All stand at attention when she steps out, eyes following her as she leaves the quiet safety of the cabin.

She trudges quickly through the crowd, hunching her shoulders and trying to quell her nausea. She has no idea where she’s going, but hopefully it’s away from _this_.

Evelyn hears the same whisper, over and over again, with no understanding of its meaning.

“It’s the Herald.  _Andraste’s Herald_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****RE-WRITTEN as of 07/02/2015****


	4. Chapter 4

“Well, well. Here she is. The Herald of Andraste,” an amused voice says somewhere to Evelyn’s right as she trudges through the thick Haven snow.

She takes two steps before she registers that the voice is speaking to  _her_ , and has to take another three before she manages to school her expression into something like composure. She turns around to address the speaker and recognizes the dwarf who had escorted her to the breach.

Varric sits on a log in front of a stuttering fire, polishing the curves of his crossbow with a rag. The winter sun glints on the metal grip, reflecting in turn off the teeth of his smile. Well, it’s more of a shit-eating grin, really—the kind a liar wears when he spins stories for gullible tavern-goers.

He waves her over, chuckling when he notices that she has to waddle to get through the heavier snow. She can’t help but scowl down at her short legs.

“Everybody’s been talking about you.”

Of course they have. A week of endless talking and staring and more talking since she stitched the Breach.

“Only worshipful things I hope.” Evelyn mutters, seating herself beside him and lifting her hands over the low flames.

“You don’t know the half of it. ‘Look,’ they say, ‘there goes the Herald, chosen by the Maker to save us all! I hear she’s descended from Andraste herself, and she shits silver pieces!’”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Varric. The Herald of Andraste would shit gold sovereigns, if anything, surely.”

Varric laughs, surprising her. It’s not really a good joke, but the sound of his amusement is so infectious that Evelyn can’t help smile just a tiny bit. It’s been a long time since she’s felt a happy pull on her lips, even counting the months before the Conclave.

“I was starting to wonder if you could pull any faces besides _bored_ or _annoyed_. I would never have guessed about the—” he taps his cheeks, “—dimples."

"I resent that. I am an absolute _ball_  of joy."

"Yes, nothing says chipper like a sigh and a scowl. The Herald of Andraste, most cheerful woman in all Thedas."

"Can you please just..." She shoves her hands closer to the fire. "Ugh.  _Herald."_

"That really bothers you, doesn't it? The title is a bit of a mouthful, I'll grant you."

"Considering—" Evelyn is distracted by a flurry of movement coming from the lower section of the Haven camp.

Cassandra ascends the main stairs and marches toward them, surrounded by a host of harried Inquisition scouts and soldiers who take turns at handing her inventory reviews and requisition requests. They fall back respectfully, when they see who it is that Cassandra approaches.

“Lady Herald.” Cassandra greets her tersely. Evelyn bows her head nominally, never breaking eye contact.

“Seeker. It’s good that you came by.”

“Really?” Cassandra is taken aback, and immediately suspicious.

"I need you to spread the word that I am accepting donations on behalf of Andraste. Coin is good, but ale is an acceptable substitute.” Evelyn tells her with utmost seriousness.

“Herald," Cassandra rolls her eyes, "do be careful where you exercise your sense of humor. There are many who would take you seriously."

"Maker, but I hope they  _do_. I could use a drink. Also, as the Herald of—er—whatever, I am officially re-assigning you to latrine duty."

"Latrine duty." the Seeker repeats, with a dangerous glint in her eye.

"It seems like an appropriate task for someone who enjoys shoveling so much Chantry shit down people’s throats."

Varric coughs loudly to hide a laugh, covering the lower half of his face with a broad hand. Cassandra stares at Evelyn almost blankly, and would appear unaffected if not for subtle flex of her jaw and the quiet grind of her teeth. Evelyn observes and records these tells carefully in her mental catalog of _Angry Cassandra_ _._ She has been toeing the line with the Seeker constantly this last week, getting small twinkles of triumph—and only the thinnest sliver of guilt (much less than she usually gets when she is so purposely insulting)—when her jibes dent the woman's steely veneer. 

There is no question of _if_ Cassandra will eventually snap. It's rather a matter of  _when?,_ and  _what's the trigger?,_ and  _can Evelyn run faster?_

“Come by the Chantry when you get a chance.” Cassandra says stiffly when her jaw finally unclenches. “There are some people you need to meet.”

The Seeker stalks off, her flock of Inquisition underlings following closely behind. Their respectful glances back at Evelyn tell her that they hadn't heard a word of the exchange, but Evelyn rather wishes they had. Maybe then they would be less blindly admiring.

“Never thought I’d meet someone who gets on with the Seeker as poorly as I do. She must have really done a number on you in that cell.” Varric says, carefully light.

Evelyn shrugs noncommittally, feigning deep interest in a stray bird overhead. 

“Anyway, now that our dagger-happy friend is out of earshot, I’ve been meaning to ask. How are you holding up?”

“Just enjoying the adoration of a small legion of Inquisition fanatics. I'm considering whether I should take someone on as my personal boot-licker. There are a lot of eager candidates, but I was thinking that it might be a good position for Chancellor Roderick. You know, really send a message about diplomacy to our good friends in the Chantry hierarchy."

“I'm sure he would be honored. Really though, I’m asking. How are you holding up?”

Evelyn blinks at Varric. _Oh_. She hadn’t considered that he might actually want honesty.

The truth is, she is barely holding up at all. Years of avoiding climbing the ranks within the Chantry, and here she is, shackled to the Inquisition with all the influence she never wanted, an icon risen from the ashes of hundreds of innocents.

The problem with saying so is that Varric is a businessman before anything else, and that earnest gaze is a big red flag. He makes a living charming his salary out of starry-eyed suckers. Checking on her emotional state is not at the top of his to-do list. 

Her throat aches the way it did before a crying fit when she was little. It takes an embarrassingly long time to push the impulse back down.

“I'm fine." she says firmly.

“Careful. I’ve seen enough to know that things never end well for the kind of people who insist on using that byline.”

“What kind of people?” she asks absently.

“You hero types."

"I don't think anyone has ever accused me of being one of those." she snorts, standing up and brushing off the back of her trousers.

"No? You've definitely got the title for it, Herald."

"I don't understand what's wrong with  _Evelyn_ , honestly."

"And you've got this 'humble chosen one' archetype going for you too.”

"I didn't know it was considered modest to want people to just use my name."

"You've never been to an Orlesian court, have you?" Varric chortles.

Evelyn rolls her eyes and trudges around the corner. She only registers that she forgot to ask why  _things never end well_  when she is on the other side of Haven.

=== === ===

The Chantry council room feels like another plane of reality where everyone is ridiculously competent and good-looking.

Seeing Spymaster Leliana in the full light of the war room makes it clear that she is as exquisite in her beauty as she is dangerous. Sure fingers rest on the map of the war table, toying with a marker as she explains her position with a fixed gaze that is sharp enough to go between the ribs.

Lady Montilyet introduces herself with a polite smile, revealing her perfect white teeth. Everything about her is arranged just so—hair flawlessly coiffed, clothing expertly fitted, words carefully courteous. Evelyn imagines that whatever she scribbles on her parchment board is as painfully neat as everything else about her.

And Commander Cullen, with his shining golden hair and amber eyes, looks like every empty-headed maiden's daydream. Were it not for the battle scar marring his lip and his apparent eagerness to recite troop positions (thus demonstrating an utter lack of outside hobbies—how _boring_ ) she would assume he  _had_ _emerged_ from a childhood fairytale. She is tempted to ask him if he has saved his stupid princess yet.

When all three of them look to Evelyn on Cassandra’s directive, she has to repress the urge to kick the Seeker in the teeth. Instead, she chooses to fake a singular focus on the giant map of southern Thedas.

“Well, not that this isn't lovely, but what am I doing here?” Evelyn says to the little winged figurine sitting on Redcliffe.

“You are the Herald of Andraste."

To amuse herself, she pretends that it was the figurine and not an impatient Cassandra who answered her question.

"Keen observation of wishful rumor, serah, but that doesn't really answer the question."

"You are the only member of the Inquisition who bears the mark that closes rifts." 

“Funny, I don't recall spotting any rifts on my way in here—oh, wait, hold on—” Evelyn makes a show of ducking down to look under the table, "—nope, none under there either. Still don't see the relevance of my presence in this room."

When she comes back up, she inadvertently makes eye contact with the Commander, who watches her movements with his head tilted like a confused mabari. She supposes he didn't expect the Herald of Andraste to go crouching under furniture.

“Oh, grow up!” Cassandra snaps. 

"I would try, but I don't think I can make myself any taller than this."

Cassandra snorts with disarmed amusement, then composes herself before,  _Maker forbid_ _,_ she comes off as having a sense of humor _._

"A terrible jest even by your standards, Herald. We do not have time for you to behave like an unruly child."

"As least I don't act like an enraged bear half the time." Evelyn says mildly, "Unlike someone in this room. Perhaps you should find a better outlet for your frustrations, Lady Seeker. I don't believe finger-painting requires too much mental exertion, if you're looking for suggestions."

"Lady Trevelyan, please." Leliana sighs, resting a hand on Cassandra's tense shoulder.

"Nobody answered my question." Evelyn tells her, while inching further along the table as casually as possible. The Spymaster might be clever, but Evelyn doubts that the Orlesian could prevent Cassandra from pulling a punch if it came down to it.

"Your status and ability make your presence within the Inquisition leadership crucial, Herald." Commander Cullen says, still looking at her with the curious surprise of someone who has found a full-grown lemon tree in their backyard without having planted it there.

“Whoa!” Evelyn exclaims, throwing her hands up. “I agreed to act as an agentof the Inquisition. No one said anything about being in charge! I mean, I’m not even sure I’m on board with this whole ‘Herald’ business to begin with—,"

“No?” Leliana says, with uplifted brows.

“It’s a farce.” Evelyn says.

"I'm sure the Chantry would agree." Cullen says, mildly amused. He's probably making fun of her, but at least somebody here is willing to entertain the thought that she isn't a holy figure.

“I do not think it is so far-fetched.” Leliana says, “You cannot remember what happened in the Fade. It is entirely possible you were sent to us by divine power.”

“How can you put that kind of faith in such a vague possibility? You just—what? Want it to have been Maker-willed, so you decide that it was?" Evelyn says.

“That is the not the point." Leliana waves her hand dismissively, "Regardless of the truth, there are many who believe you were sent by Andraste. This assumption gives you power. Gives  _us_  power."

Evelyn takes a deep breath. “Listen. I was under the impression that it would be a point and go sort of relationship. I wasn’t prepared to... to lead anyone.”

“Point and go." Cassandra says.

“Yes. Exactly. Simple. You point. I go.” Evelyn only barely curbs the desire to tack another derogatory comment about the Seeker’s intelligence (ha!— _lack thereof)_ on the end.

The advisers glance at each other warily.

“I understand your hesitation, Herald. But you _will_ have sway over the direction of the Inquisition. Your new title ensures it." Josephine says gently, "You have become a symbol of hope for the people. They will look to you for guidance. Whatever you were before, you are now their Herald.”

“Make no mistake,” Leliana says, “We are not looking for a puppet. The people of Thedas need to know that you do more than follow orders if they are to have faith in the Inquisition’s intentions. If you are propped up as a holy figurehead without true influence, our enemies will smell blood in the water. We have already drawn censure from within the Chantry. Let us avoid drawing it elsewhere.”

Evelyn can't think of a suitable rebuttal, and the others seem to take her silence as tacit agreement. Talk turns to suitable allies for the Inquisition. Evelyn largely withdraws from the conversation, responding only when necessary with indistinct  _mm's_ and  _ah's,_ _all the while trying to grab hold of the situation in her head._

When she agreed to go along with this Inquisition, she had only known that she was out of options. A Chantry pariah on all counts, the Trevelyan family black sheep, and not a coin to her name. Without the Inquisition she would be well and truly screwed (unless she went back to her family, but she didn’t seeing that scenario going particularly well).

Evelyn hadn't thought for a second that they would shove  _this_  on her—a burden of charge too much for a small absurd nobody like her.

When the room falls silent and Lady Josephine starts shuffling her papers around, Evelyn takes it as a sign that the meeting is over. She practically sprints out of the room, and down the main Chantry chamber. Just as she reaches the doors leading outside, though, she hears the Commander’s voice ring out behind her—“Herald!" 

She turns, sees him jogging to catch up with her, and then pointedly ignores him. Apparently he can't take a hint though, because his long legs outpace hers quickly and he is by her side in moments, walking with her through the Haven muck. She curses him for being a full head taller.

“Commander,” Evelyn says. She is careful not to look at him so he gets the message ( _don’t talk, idiot, just go away_ ).

“Do you have a moment?”

“I would say no, but I have a feeling my responses are actually irrelevant to you, if that meeting was any indication.”

“Ah—that's not...I can see why you might be frustrated, in your position.”

"You can stop pretending to feel badly about it."

He clears his throat awkwardly.

"Are you headed somewhere?"

“That  _is_  the general purpose of walking.” She speaks slowly like she is teaching a nug basic table manners.

“Anywhere important?"

“To the...” Evelyn struggles to come up with something believable, “blacksmith.”

"I'm headed in the same direction. If you don't mind, I'll join you."

She  _does_ mind, but can't think of a suitable way of telling him so.

They walk together through the gate surrounding the village and past the practice fields, where the newest recruits are sparring with each other. While there are a small handful of veteran soldiers who know how to wield a sword, most of them are clumsy, untested volunteers.

“Cassandra mentioned you used a bow when you first met.” The Commander says.

"Yes."

"She said you shot well."

"Okay."

"Do you wield a long-bow or—"

“What did you actually want to talk about, Commander?" Evelyn stops abruptly near a tent propped against the makeshift fence surrounding Haven. "I'm sure you have more important things to be doing right now than attempting some round-about small talk."

“Er, yes.”

He looks down at his boots and rubs the back of his neck. She wonders if he commands his troops with his chin tucked into his chest like that.

“You were uncomfortable in the council room, when we were discussing your position. I just wanted to tell you that things have worked out for the best. And that none of us knows exactly what we’re doing, so it’s all right.” 

“How very reassuring.” Evelyn says tartly.

"What I mean is, you will not be quite as, um, incompetent in your position as you seem to think.”

“But still incompetent though, is that what you mean?”

“That’s not. I mean, that's not what I meant.”

“Do you always give such splendid pep-talks?”

He frowns. She can't tell if he's getting annoyed with her already or if he just can't figure out how to engage a hostile target.

Evelyn wants him to go away, of course, but is hit by the realization that she shouldn’t alienate the Commander. She can’t afford to have more people hate her here. Cassandra is already plenty enough woman for  _that_  job.

“Sorry." she grumbles reluctantly, "I’m sure you were just trying to be helpful. I just have a hard time with…courtesy. Go on.”

The Commander bows his head obligingly; an even response that contrasts starkly with Cassandra’s constant, boiling temper.  

“It will be overwhelming. Your job, I mean."

"I'm getting that." Evelyn snorts.

"You have proven your capability though." It sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than her.

"Quite an endorsement, Commander, considering my skillset is mostly restricted to blunt, offensive sarcasm. As you've seen."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "I meant a week ago, when you stemmed the breach."

"Beyond that though, you don't know anything about me. It could've been a huge fluke." She adds, "It  _was_ a huge fluke."

“Ah. I wouldn’t say we know  _nothing_ about you. Leliana is a very…effective Spymaster.” The Commander rubs his neck again, obviously not realizing his own nervous tic.

“Effective Spymaster." Evelyn doesn't want to think about what Leliana might know. "And here you were just telling me how none of you knows what you’re doing.”

“Well yes. I mean, I said none of us know  _exactly_  what we’re—,” He stops himself abruptly, face going stern as he focuses over her shoulder. The hand at his neck goes down to the pommel of his sword and he throws his shoulders back.

Evelyn blinks.

He really is quite tall.

“You there! Yes,  _you_! What’s that in your hand?”

Evelyn turns around to see who the Commander is barking at. It’s a skinny little recruit, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old.

“Which one, sir?” he asks, voice tremulous.

Commander Cullen lets out an exasperated sigh, but tries to remain patient, “Your right hand, recruit.”

“A sword, Commander. Sir.”

“Are you sure about that?” Cullen asks. His posture has an unquestionable authority to it—so different from his earlier hunched position—and the young recruit has to look down before he answers hesitantly.

"Yes...sir?"

“Then swing it like one. Your foes will not go down with a gentle tap.”

“Yes, sir!” The recruit begins hacking his sword enthusiastically (if inexpertly) against his training partner, who seems equally clueless about swordplay, if his parries are any indication.

“Do you see that boy, Herald?” the Commander asks, returning to a more conversational tone, though notably more confident and instructive now. 

“How could I miss such exceptionally poor technique?” Evelyn mutters.

“That boy is the son of a pig farmer. Never held a sword in his life, and he probably never wanted to. And here he is, learning how to spar. Why do you think that is?”

“Because he didn’t want to get on the bad side of one very intimidating superior officer.”

Cullen smirks. “Because he believes in the Inquisition’s cause. We fight to protect the people of Thedas from chaos and destruction, and he has chosen to be a part of that, even knowing the risks.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll do any good.”

“Perhaps not right away, but he'll learn. All we ask is his full commitment.” He looks pointedly at her.

“Subtle, Commander." Evelyn says, “The difference is, you call him a recruit and you call me a Herald. And commitment alone won't cut it."

“It's the principle of the thing, Herald."

"Principle. Sure."

The Commander is distracted again by the mock-battle behind her. She glances back over her shoulder just in time to see the recruit trip over his own feet and fall on his arse. She smothers a laugh on the back of her hand. The Commander himself looks torn between mirth and frustration.

"I'm certain you can avoid doing that, at least?" he says to Evelyn.

"Well I can hit my target, if that's what you're asking. But that's not a high benchmark, considering what others can manage."

"Higher than you think."

"Not really."

“Do not waste time doubting your capabilities.” he says, losing patience, “None of us can afford it. Can you at least agree to that, Herald?”

Cullen stares at her intently and her stomach coils nervously.

"I'll try, Commander." she says without much conviction.

He seems satisfied though, nodding his head respectfully at Evelyn and trotting away with the clear intent of nagging more recruits. She decides that the Commander—for all his initial stuttering and nannering and chin-tucking—is not so un-commander-like after all.

“I’ll try.” she repeats quietly to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****RE-WRITTEN as of 4/28/2015, LAST EDITED as of 6/30/2015****


	5. Chapter 5

After weeks spent wandering the Hinterlands, Evelyn is beginning to wonder if the trip will ever end.

Mother Giselle had placed herself in the deepest zone of conflict between the mages and templars (of course, because it would have been _silly_ to wait somewhere reasonable), so it was near impossible to track their progress through the hillsides. And without a concrete timeline of arrival, Evelyn finds herself wearing thin from seemingly endless battles.

She has always known that the fighting here was bad, in a detached, logical sense—that’s why Justinia had organized the Conclave, after all—but first-hand knowledge starkly illuminates the naivety of her sheltered point of view.

Evelyn had spent her youth studying the old tomes populating the dusty Tantervale archives, harboring a special fascination for ancient tales of Thedosian battles in particular. They were almost romantic in her mind's eye—how the Grey Wardens defeated darkspawn in the five Blights, and how Tevinter and the Qun clashed without surrender for whole centuries, and how the first humans warred against the immortal elvhen of Arlathan until the empire’s collapse. She would lose whole days imagining herself as one of the heroes of lore, pinning high dragons with expert bowman-ship or forcing the retreat of a horde with clever military diversion.

Now, having journeyed through these war-torn valleys, Evelyn knows better.

Victories are not just a matter of weighing two armies’ resources against each other—they are unsure things, bloody and dirty and hard-won; and they are hollow in the knowledge that there is always yet more conflict waiting around the corner. With every moment that she comes a hair’s breadth away from a templar’s sword or gets singed on the end of a mage's staff, she learns what true fear of death is.

Each day is more miserable than the last. Her feet become blistered and sore. Her pale skin, never taking well to excessive sun, burns badly along the bridge of her nose and peels on the back of her neck. She forgets what being clean feels like, falling onto her pallet every night with the lingering smells of dried sweat and mage fire in her hair.

Worst of all are the dreams filled with spurts of flame that melt her skin away and with swords jutting out of the piles of the dead. Sometimes she wakes from the Fade, shaking in a cold sweat, but gloriously  _free_  from the nightmare. More often, she is trapped until daybreak, watching glassy-eyed bodies twitch, leaking blood from their mouths until they writhe in whole puddles of red on the ground. It is a rare blessing on the days when she is too exhausted to dream.

Most of their nights are spent squatting in low-hanging caves or the least damp patch of ground in the vicinity, so it is almost a treat when Evelyn and her companions find shelter in a dilapidated stone fort one evening. They have to fight off some bandits to claim it, but it means that a fire pit is already set up and some dried morsels of fennec are wrapped and bundled in a leftover crate.

The fact that this—a crumbling fort and the strong possibility of getting rained on—is the best they’ve had since Haven is something Evelyn finds deeply depressing.

Solas sparks a fire while Varric digs through other crates in search of more supplies. Evelyn rolls out her sleeping pallet without acknowledging the others. She had stopped pretending she had energy for things like casual conversation weeks ago.

When her companions banter to fill the long periods of walking, she adds nothing unless directly addressed, and the others quickly stop trying. When they run into other Inquisition agents, Evelyn speaks in monosyllables or ignores them outright. She sees their faces, offended and off-put by this supposedly holy woman who dismisses them where they expect her to treat them as disciples. It makes her seethe inside, a hot tension of frustration without an outlet.

Evelyn wraps her blanket around her shoulders and settles on her side, purposely facing away from the fire, just starting to drift when Cassandra’s brisk Nevarran tones startle her.

“Herald, might I have a moment of your time?”

She rolls over and gives Cassandra the dirtiest look she can muster. The Seeker is wholly unruffled.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess I’ll just sleep when I’m dead, shall I?”

Evelyn rolls onto her feet, abandoning her blanket on the ground. Cassandra gestures for Evelyn to follow her and stalks outside the boundaries of camp into a copse of trees without a backwards glance.

"Getting rid of the witnesses," Evelyn mutters, "That's ominous."

"Try not to kill each other." Varric says cheerfully from his seat by the fire. Solas chuckles.

"Oh very helpful." she tells them.

Evelyn follows where she saw the Seeker disappear between the bushes. It is further back in the woods than Evelyn expected, quite well out of earshot of the others. If Evelyn looks over her shoulder, she can only barely see the flickering firelight cast through the shadows of tree branches.

The Seeker has posed herself underneath a large pine, hands clasped behind her back—relaxed, but alert. If Evelyn didn’t know any better, she wouldn't have been able to guess that this woman has spent the better part of a month locked in lethal combat. Her posture is too easy, armor too well polished. The watchful, Inquisitorial eye on her chestplate gleams even in the dark.

Cassandra scrutinizes her without saying a word, her face hard to read in the dim evening. Evelyn grows uneasy after a full minute of silence, and runs through a quick mental list of biting insults she could use to provoke the Seeker into talking, even deciding on one involving a nug’s ass and a dwarf’s beard, when Cassandra decides to speak up.

“Things have been tense between us.”

Evelyn laughs at how absurdly obvious the statement is.

“No shit. We argue so spectacularly that we’ve woken up hibernating bears. Literally. We’ve attracted bears because you can’t shut up.”

Cassandra clenches her jaw and Evelyn hears teeth grinding. For how often the woman does it, Evelyn is impressed that her molars aren’t worn down into stubs yet.

“The incident to which you are referring was not  _my_ fault.”

“Oh please. You screech louder than a terror demon.”

“I do NOT—" Evelyn smirks when Cassandra has to work to modulate her volume. “—screech. And I would not have argued with you if you had not decided on such a ridiculous errand. Summoning a spirit from death!  _What were you thinking_ _?”_

“I wasthinking that it was clearly a ridiculous hoax,”—and a necessary distraction from the mage-templar war—“Who in their right mind would have guessed that someone’s dead grandfather would rise from the grave, greatsword in hand, ready to claim his revenge?”

“Even if it had been, as you call it, a hoax, it was a task without any connection to our objective here! As are half of the things you drag us around to do. I have never met someone so distracted by abandoned cabins and elfroot in all my life!”

Cassandra is completely right on that point, but this is nothing that Evelyn will freely admit. She needs those moments where she can do something wholly pointless and unrelated to killing.

"Well, you did put me at the helm of this operation. You should remember that, whenever you feel like nitpicking every little thing I do."

Cassandra takes a series of slow, deep breaths through her nostrils. Her stance is strongly reminiscent of the one she takes before knocking someone over with a shield bash.

"I did not ask to speak with you this evening to discuss your performance as my superior.”

“Get to the point then.”

“I would like to call a truce.”

Evelyn almost laughs again, but stops short at the serious set of the Seeker’s mouth.

“You want to make nice.” Evelyn says slowly, with narrowed eyes.

“This constant bickering needs to end.”

"Oh does it?"

Cassandra takes another deep breath, “I have been ruminating on this for some time, Herald. I realize that you and I do not often see eye to eye, but we cannot continue to foster this hostility between us.”

“What does it matter to you, how well we get along?” 

“You are the Herald of—”

"Do you understand how obnoxious it gets," Evelyn snaps, "listening to you answer everything I say with that shit? 'Herald, this. Herald, that. A _good_  Herald hunts down renegade templars and rebel mages, and eats all their vegetables at dinner.' Maker’s balls, how many times do I have to say it? I am not some bloody chosen one!”

Cassandra throws her hands up into the air and Evelyn automatically flinches a step back.

“Fine. You don't believe it. But others do _,_ so it's not as though it matters—"

“Doesn’t matter,” Evelyn spits, “My opinion doesn’t matter, even though the Inquisition has all but thrust me into a den of hungry wolves? I’ll just shut my mouth then, shall I, and save everyone the trouble of pretending to listen. Tell everyone I’ve taken a vow of silence on Andraste’s behalf and then let you all string me along like a marionette, wherever and whenever you fancy.”

Evelyn whirls away, prepared to storm off into the night alone, consequences be damned. Cassandra is hot on her heels.

“You are a holy figure in eyes of the people, Herald. Your words will not change that. You must accept it and wield it to the Inquisition’s best advantage.”

“Fuck the Inquisition. The only thing it’s done so far is gotten me stuck withyou.”

Evelyn feels a hand, vice-like, yanking on her wrist, and it’s like a bucket of ice water has been dumped down her back. Her whole body seizes up, limbs trembling and back arching inward to escape the heat of the switch that follows—

Cassandra lets go and Evelyn can breathe again.

When she looks back, the Seeker is watching her with odd look. Evelyn dry swallows and closes her eyes.

“Do you believe in the Maker?” Cassandra says without her usual bite, after listening to Evelyn pant for some moments.

“No.” Evelyn says, thankful that her episode has passed unacknowledged.

“Why not?”

“Why would I?”

“I do not understand how one could have been educated by the Chantry without learning faith.”

"Well it was boring, for one thing."

"The Chant of Light is not boring." Cassandra says, affronted.

"It is after you've memorized it well enough to sing it in your sleep. And it's a bit depressing too."

"It is meant to guide the lost among the Maker's flock back to their faith! To comfort those who have felt loss!"

"You know what comforts me? Listening to tavern drinking songs of questionable moral character. Like a bloody lullaby."

Cassandra laughs. The sound is unpracticed and rusty. 

Evelyn blinks stupidly, unsure if she's hallucinating.

“I admit, it is easier to picture you spending time among a drunken rabble than the clergy. And it certainly explains your filthy language.”

Evelyn is unsure how to respond, pondering where to how to fit _rare good humor_  into her mental picture of _Angry Cassandra._ It doesn't match.

"It's all beside the point, isn't it?" the Seeker continues with a sigh, "What I was saying before, about a truce. It still stands, Herald. You asked me why it matters to me, how well we get along. It is for the sake of the Inquisition. We cannot reach our goal without some trust.

"I am shamed by my earlier behavior towards you, Herald. I assumed your guilt from the first because I thought I saw the answer before me, clear as day. But I was wrong about you, and your guilt, and maybe that means I am wrong about everything. I do not know, but it is my hope that you forgive me and we act as a more cohesive unit in the future."

A pregnant silence follows. Cassandra wrings her hands. Evelyn is uncomfortably aware of the fact that the direction of their relationship hinges on her next response.

The Seeker offers her an olive branch. It would be easier to take, were the woman less of a reminder.

Evelyn sighs, “My own behavior has been unworthy. Let's just. Be friendlier in the future, I guess.”

They reach out in unison and shake hands, both surprised at the conclusion their conversation has taken. Their agreement cannot fix weeks of bitter rivalry, and they are not friends now by any stretch of the imagination, but it's a start.

"Do you really..." Evelyn trails off.

"Really what?"

"Am I doing so badly as the Inquisition’s Herald, already?"

"No." she says quietly, seeming taken aback.

Evelyn hears what goes unsaid. ( _But you could be doing better_.)

=== === ===

They return to Haven after much ado, and any good spirits Evelyn might have felt at arriving back at the Inquisition’s base are immediately squashed by the sight of an angry mob gathered in front of the Chantry. At the center, two men face off, one outfitted in templar armor and the other in mage robes. Their weapons are drawn.

(And here she had thought she’d finally escaped the conflict plaguing the Hinterlands.)

“Enough!” an authoritative voice shouts over the angry muttering. Like waves, the crowd parts before the Commander's imposing stature. He marches through and plants himself between the men at the center, forcefully shoving them away from each other. “I will not have it.”

“But Knight-Captain,” the templar starts.

“That is not my title anymore. We are no longer templars.” Cullen snarls, “We all serve the Inquistion. Back to your posts,  _all of you_.”

The horde disperses immediately, as though it had never been there at all. Only she and Commander Cullen remain. He bows jerkily at her without breaking eye contact, hand moving up to rub the back of his neck.

“Your worship.”

"Commander.”

“I am sorry you had to see that. The camp has grown restless in your absence.”

“That’s nothing compared to what I’ve seen this last month,” Evelyn sighs, “I’m sure you and Leliana have it under control.”

“Hardly,” Chancellor Rodrick says, choosing this moment to materialize out of nowhere. “You imbeciles are holding this heretical Inquisition together with little more than sticks and spit. It is only a matter of time before it crumbles.”

“Rodrick,” the Commander growls.

“That’s _Chancellor_ Rodrick to you.” the man sniffs disdainfully, “I hear that Mother Giselle has arrived with some crackpot plan to send you to Val Royeaux to beg for Chantry support. You cannot actually believe that will work.”

“If they’re anywhere near as dull-witted as you, Chancellor, I expect they’ll have burnt down the Grand Cathedral before we even arrive.” Evelyn snaps.

“You mock me now, but I assure you that you will feel the full force of the Chantry’s opposition very soon. Your folly will ruin you.”

“Don’t hold your breath on that count, Chancellor. Or rather, please  _do_ _.”_

Rodrick stomps away, grumbling to himself.

“Why is he still here?” Evelyn demands, “He’s already made it clear that he thinks we’re the worst force in Thedas since the last archdemon. What’s the point of sticking around?”

“Don’t ruminate on it.” Cullen says, “He's toothless. And he can do no more than he has already.”

“Maybe we should have Leliana disappear him? She can do that right?”

He presses his lips together, trying not to smirk.

“ _T _hat__ would be called a gross abuse of power, Herald,” he says, trying for sternness and failing miserably because his mouth still pulls upward, “and it would lend him credibility he doesn’t deserve. Now come. The others will want to discuss your trip.”

He holds open the door to the Chantry for her, silly chivalrous knight that he is, and they walk together down the hallway.

The Spymaster and Ambassador are already huddled together over the table, murmuring to each other as they pour over different locations on the map. There are several more tokens marking it than when Evelyn was here last.

“Herald,” Leliana says, “Josie has an urgent matter to discuss with you.”

“‘Hello, Evelyn.’” Evelyn says, affecting her best impression of the Spymaster’s accent (it is rather good, if she’s feeling self-congratulatory), “‘How was your jaunt in the Hinterlands? Good to see you haven't been stabbed to death or eaten by bears.’”

“Every moment spent exchanging pleasantries is another moment wasted. I would hope that you would already know that we all have the utmost concern for your wellbeing, Herald.” Leliana says crisply, unamused.

Before Evelyn can make a retort, Lady Montilyet cuts in with her perfect grace.

“ _Leliana_ , do not be so cold. A pleasant greeting is never a waste of time.” Josephine scolds, then turns to Evelyn with a neat smile, “Lady Herald, I do hope your time in the Hinterlands was not too trying. Mother Giselle arrived not long ago with high praise of your diplomacy.”

“She said what.” Evelyn says. Cullen stifles a laugh across the table.

Evelyn distinctly recalls some of the very  _not_ diplomatic things she said to the Revered Mother. Like the threats of bodily harm as retribution for being so outrageously difficult to track down.

“At any rate, I am afraid that Leliana was quite right about that urgent matter I needed to discuss with you.”

“I’m all ears.” Evelyn says, still distracted over what Mother Giselle possibly could have said to make Josephine mention words like _your_ and _diplomacy_ next to each other in a sentence directed at _her._

“We are in the process of beginning talks of alliance with several noble families. Nobody very important yet, but still—progress.”

“Not seeing the urgency, Lady Montilyet. To the point.”

“I’d like to discuss your parents.” Josephine says more bluntly.

“I wouldn’t. So let’s not.” Evelyn says this with such immediate coldness that Josephine, as well-trained a diplomat as she is, can’t help but snap her mouth shut, clearly not having anticipated such a negative response. She recovers quickly, however.

“It will give  _all of us_ ,” Josephine emphasizes the words to remind Evelyn of her investment in the situation, “a distinct political advantage if we can win the favor of more powerful noble families, do you not think?”

“Yes.” Evelyn says grudgingly, because it's the truth.

“Yours is one such family, as I understand, with its considerable holdings in Ostwick?"

"Yes." she says, even more grudging.

"Would it not be practical to send a courier suggesting alignment with the Inquisition?”

“Practicality has nothing to do with it, Lady Montilyet.”

“I disagree.” Leliana says before Josephine can continue wheedling. “This has everything to do with pragmatism. The Inquisition needs allies. For you to take one off the table entirely disregards your duty to our cause.”

“If you knew anything about the Trevelyans, you wouldn’t be asking.”

“I know plenty about—,” Leliana begins haughtily, when Josephine holds her palm up. Evelyn is left wondering just  _how much_  the Spymaster knows.

“Leliana, please. What is it we do not understand about your family, Lady Trevelyan?”

“It’s…hard to explain.” Evelyn digs for a reason that will satisfy their prying, “I can tell you that my parents are very publicly supportive of the Chantry hierarchy. The Inquisition’s current opposition with them doesn’t bode well for an alliance with my Bann father.”

“Surely your parents would not think their own daughter a heretic!”

Evelyn drums her fingers on the war table, staring at the dot on the map labelled  _Ostwick_.  She can imagine her father’s answering letter now, were they to send a courier requesting support. Would he hunt her down, mother in tow, and force her back into family service? Would he punish her for her involvement with the Inquisition?

Her heart jumps into her throat and her whole body flushes uncomfortably.

“That is enough discussion of the Herald’s family for now, I should think.” the Commander says. 

Evelyn looks up and blinks at him rapidly.

“We cannot afford to sit idle! The Inquisition needs resources  _now_.” Leliana insists.

Evelyn suddenly suspects from the Spymaster's insistence that the discussion of the Trevelyans was not meant to be a negotiation at all—merely a passing courtesy engineered to let Evelyn feel in control. Leliana and Josephine simply hadn't accounted for Evelyn's resistance.

“Her worship hasn't been to Val Royeaux yet, and we don't know whether we might win a modicum of Chantry support.” Cullen replies.

"Why choose one when we could have both?" Leliana says.

"We are not so desperate that we need to go banging down every door, Leliana."

"And not so well off that we can turn a blind eye to this opportunity. Just yesterday you were concerned that we would have to ration food stocks if we were to acquire more troops. Why the change of heart, Commander?"

“It is the Herald’s family. The Herald’s choice.” Cullen says, red in the face, but nowhere close to budging.

Evelyn feels a wave of appreciation. 

"The Herald—," Leliana begins, looking ready to bunker down and go to war to get her way.

"Enough." Evelyn says firmly, remembering just enough from her damn etiquette lessons to stand up straight and raise her chin up. "This discussion is tabled. What's our next move?"

The others are visibly startled by her apparent change in attitude.

Josephine hesitates, glancing at Leliana before going into the particulars of Evelyn’s journey to Val Royeaux. Evelyn waits until Leliana is sufficiently distracted by a breakdown of the Chantry's remaining connections outside of Orlais before she makes eye contact with the Commander and mouths a quick  _thank you._ He nods at her minutely and his gaze darts away quickly, carefully focused on Josephine's list of possible sympathizers. The color is still high in his cheek from his disagreement with Leliana.

She hasn't said them out loud, but they are the most grateful words she's felt in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****RE-WRITTEN as of 02/13/2015, LAST EDITED as of 06/30/2015****
> 
> Always thought it was pretty unrealistic to just walk down a hill and find Mother Giselle right there. In my head canon, the Inquisitor needs to do a lot of wandering around and fighting against the strife in the Hinterlands before she reaches her goal. I tried to write this chapter reflecting that.


	6. Chapter 6

Before she was sent away for Chantry training, Evelyn used to spend her summers at Grand-mère’s estate on the outskirts of Val Royeaux. There at Lady Trevelyan’s insistence, she and her siblings had learned the basics of court pleasantries and intrigue. By the time she was eight, Evelyn knew which forks and knives went where at a formal dinner party, could name the capitals and main exports of the major Thedosian cities, and spoke with fluent Orlesian, passable Antivan, and even a little Tevine.

Much like her daughter, Grand-mère was always an exacting tutor—insisting that they always use formal grammar and swatting them reprovingly with plush throw pillows when they forgot vocabulary—tapping Evelyn’s shoulder with two fingers whenever she caught her slouching—making them sit at the dinner table until they could name all of the obscure dishes they had been presented with.

But she was also indulgent, in her way. When Evelyn first threw a tantrum in Grand-mère’s presence, she was taken aside into a coat closet until the crying died down.

“Ma bichette,” Grand-mère said, “whatever is the matter?”

“I d-don’t want to go to service this morning.” Evelyn whimpered, already anticipating a switching for her outburst—when would she learn to control herself?

"Why not?"

"Remy and Jean a-always think it's funny to p-p-pull my hair and whisper mean names in my ear when everyone sings and no one can hear." she said, "It's all b-boring and awful."

To Evelyn’s great surprise, Grand-mère had snorted with mirth before sending her brothers and sisters off with her lady’s maid.

“Take a turn with me. I need to stretch my legs.” Grand-mère said casually when the others had departed.

As they wandered through the family vineyard, tossing ripened grapes meant for wine to wandering peacocks (all of which were the fashionable albino ivory favored among the Orlesian elite at the time), Evelyn got to wondering.

“Aren’t you angry with me, Grand-mère?”

“If you want to talk, you must ask me in the proper language.” Grand-mère said, already in her mother tongue, “Because here you are an Orlesian, not a Marcher.”

Evelyn repeated the question.

“Ma bichette, I can hardly blame you for hating the services. I _too_  find them quite dull.”

Evelyn gasped. Grand-mère's eyes twinkled behind her gleaming painted mask.

“Really? I mean—are you  _allowed_  to say that?”

“Orlesian.” Grand-mère said insistently.

Evelyn obliged eagerly, stumbling over a conjugation in her haste. It took two more tries before Grand-mère found it adequate.

“Who is to begrudge the opinion of an old woman? I often doze to the lull of creaking benches and bored sighs. Mother Agnes has yet to figure out how to make her sermons less dull.” her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, “Now, if you really want to enjoy the Chantry, I shall have to sneak you into the Grand Cathedral at sunset. That is the only time one can truly appreciate its beauty without that silly Chant buzzing in the ears.”

“You don’t think the Chant is silly!”

“Only the people singing it, ma bichette. The Chantry should be a place of quiet reflection, not strict worship.”

“But Mother says—”

“Guinevere always  _was_ the most uptight of my children. She got it from your Grand-père, may that doddering old fool rest in peace. You though, you share my spirit, ma bichette, wanting to do things a bit differently. The other pea in my pod.”

“Peas in a pod.” Evelyn whispered to herself, as one peacock gobbled a grape straight from her fingers.

From then on, the two of them would skip weekly services together, wandering the grounds in deep discussion about the finer points of a recent history lesson or lounging on a balcony over a chess board and a plate of lemon cookies. Whenever Evelyn would lose her short temper, which was admittedly quite often, Grand-mère would wait patiently for it to die off (“ _I used to have such episodes too, ma bichette. You will learn to control it.”_ ), and then pick up where they had left off without so much as a smack on the wrist.

Though she loved Ostwick for the cool brine floating in off the sea and the whispered sighs of its creaking oaks, Evelyn came to long for the overbearing heat of the summer months in Val Royeaux—Grand-mère’s stolid presence a salve to her loneliness.

To this day, Evelyn does not know what Grand-mere’s face had looked like, always hidden under that proper porcelain mask—even when her body was displayed at the wake for her funeral.

=== === ===

Evelyn and her companions pass under the Sun Gate just as the Grand Cathedral’s bells signal noontime, sun beating down on them from center sky. She is sticky and miserable even in the lightest rogue's coat afforded to her by the Inquisition’s quartermaster. The local Orlesians, on the other hand, wander the main plaza in twice as many layers in seeming comfort.

The splendor of Val Royeaux is just as she remembers it: gold varnish adorning buildings’ edges, shops’ trellises thick with roses, and the smell of spun sugar lingering in the air. Beautiful, Evelyn supposes, but only so well polished in order to hide the rot of high society underneath.

The others seem equally unimpressed.

Cassandra examines the long silk drapes overhanging the plaza with marked distaste (Evelyn sniggers), as though annoyed with such pointless indulgence. 

Varric eavesdrops on a pair of dwarven merchants who bandy numbers about rapidly, watching each other closely for hesitation. Without context, Evelyn cannot figure out what Varric finds so amusing. She’ll ask him what the joke is later. 

And Solas, despite his threadbare travelling vest and naked feet, is looking down his nose at every passing noble. He has more audacity than most elves, but is so subtle a presence that most people don’t notice. Solas catches Evelyn watching him and his expression settles into a mild smile.

“I was just thinking of the Fade memories I have seen of this place. The spirits have shown me a time when it was nothing more than a few stalls, and all but barren of visitors. A fascinating transition, don’t you think?”

“It does sound quite different.” Cassandra says with longing.

“‘Different’ is a nice way of saying that it was a shanty town.” Evelyn says. “It’s probably better off now, even if the inhabitants are stuck-up ponces.”

“Have you visited before, Herald?” Solas asks.

“Not in a long while. The last time was for… You know what? I can’t even recall.”

“But you are familiar.” Solas says knowingly.

“Val Royeaux is not the sort of place you forget, and Orlesians are not the sort of people you forget. Everything is about romance and scandal with them. Once, a man acquainted with my family for barely more than a week proposed to my sister—just over there, incidentally.” Evelyn gestures to one of the golden lion statues guarding the plaza, “I can still remember his awful poetry.”

“What poem?” Cassandra asks with surprising interest.

“I don’t know the name. Something about honey and bees? It was very  _suggestive._ ”

“And did she accept?”

“She was only fourteen. Mother never would have allowed it," Evelyn adds under her breath, "much to Olivia's disappointment, I’m sure.”

“Fourteen! That’s barely more than a child. What could have driven him to court her at so young an age?”

“Olivia has always been a great beauty.” Evelyn shrugs, “Even as a teenager she could command a room's attention.”

“Do you look much alike?” Solas says, politely skeptical.

“Not at all,” Evelyn says lightly, turning her head away as though to examine a shop sign in order to hide her reddening face. "She takes after our mother, and I take after my father."

Evelyn has what the nobility would refer to as _well-bred_ features, but it could never be said that she was particularly pretty, with her over-bent nose and a masculine chin. Her sisters were not so unlucky.

“Indeed.” Solas says, attention already directed elsewhere.

Evelyn presses on before there can be further comment on the subject, “I think I see our Chantry friends over there. Shall we go say hello?”

“Looks like a party.” Varric snorts, scanning a restless group of locals gathered before a wooden dais where a Chantry mother addresses them. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I like parties. It’s just that Orlesians never actually eat the cake at their soirees.”

“Tread carefully, Herald. Something is not right.” Cassandra says.

Her face is set with stern suspicion and she moves closer to Evelyn, sword hand hovering over her weapon. Evelyn is slowly learning the difference between the Seeker’s scowls, and how one might mean worry over disapproval.

“What could possibly go wrong?” Evelyn says, shoving her way through some stragglers at the edges. And, like she was tempting fate by asking such a blasé question, Evelyn finds a tide of collective disapproval up to her neck before she can blink.

“She murdered our beloved Divine! She seeks to take power where the Chantry and all of southern Thedas has suffered loss!” a Revered Mother declares after a _charming_ speech about the evils of Inquisition forces, pointing an accusing finger in Evelyn’s direction.

“ _Yes_ _,_ you caught me. I am only here to continue my murder spree—ow!”

Cassandra’s boot heel grinds down on Evelyn’s toes before she can dig herself deeper.

“Please, Mother,” the Seeker implores, “we are here to reach an accord with the Chantry. The Inquisition only seeks to close the breach!”

“You are heretics, claiming that this woman is the Herald of Andraste. We will not hear your lies.” A group of templars mount the dais as the Revered Mother speaks. “Look! The templars will restore order.”

Without warning, one of them lashes out with his fist, landing a blow that knocks the cleric to the ground. Gasps ring out through the crowd, and even one among the templars looks sick at the display. The most richly armored man, clearly in charge, leads the group back down from the dais without a word. He is not necessarily ugly, Evelyn observes, but the expression somehow renders his face repulsive.

Cassandra follows the man closely. “Lord Seeker Lucius, it's imperative that we speak with—”

“You will not address me.” he says coldly, "If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late."

Cassandra freezes on the spot, aghast and dumbly silent. Evelyn scrambles to try and say what Cassandra might have if her brains hadn’t inconveniently melted out of her ears.

"Why are you even here? You've already refused to protect the people you’re supposed to be sworn in service to.”

"The templars owe the Chantry nothing.”

“Who gave you the power to decide who deserves what?” Evelyn challenges.

“Who gives your Inquisition the power to declare you the Herald of Andraste? The templars alone are prepared to face the void. We alone deserve recognition. Val Royeaux is undeserving of our protection. We march.”

“Templar sheep!” Evelyn snaps.

She intends to follow them, but Cassandra yanks her back by the collar of her jacket. An arrow  _whooshes_  just in front of her face, wedging itself firmly into the ground, a crumpled piece of parchment fluttering from the tip.

“What—” Evelyn gasps dumbly, heart going into a frenzy of palpitations.

“An assassination attempt?” Cassandra says tensely. Her eyes dart over the roof, as though the archer might give a friendly wave and shout ‘ _Over here!_ I _did it!’_.

“No I don't think so," Varric chuckles, "Someone just wants the Herald's attention. And I think they succeeded. Her eyes are going to roll right out of her head if she opens them any wider.”

He kneels down and yanks the paper free.

"Well?" Cassandra demands. Evelyn works to still the trembling in her hands.

"Here I thought the day couldn’t get any more dramatic. It looks like we're being sent on a wild goose chase. Come on, Chuckles, let’s go chase a lead.” Varric pats Evelyn's arm kindly, “You and the Seeker stay here and take some girl time. We’ll be right back.”

“ _Girl_   _time_ _?_ ” the Seeker in question hisses.

Varric saunters off with an amused Solas in tow, and Evelyn finally recovers enough to yell after them, “Where are you even going?!”, but they disappear around the corner without acknowledging her.

She and Cassandra are left in an awkward wake of silence. The last time they had been alone was their agreement to a truce in the Hinterlands. Though they have been largely cordial to each other since then, an unspoken tension continues to stretch between them.

Evelyn goes to lean on a wall near the Sun Gate, and Cassandra trails behind reluctantly.

"The Lord Seeker was acting strangely, Herald."

"You mean he's not normally so reasonable and understanding?"

"He was never so prone to ambition and grandstanding during my time in the order. It is odd."

“Odd. Right.” Evelyn says doubtfully, “I'm sure it's disappointing that your old Seeker buddy didn’t want to chat with you, but can we talk about the fact that he just had an innocent, albeit annoying, woman violently silenced?"

“I don’t…” Cassandra seems at a loss for words.

“Either way, we can't approach them."

"Not yet, perhaps." Cassandra hedges, "If we could gather enough resources to convince them of our worth though, they could still be a viable option."

Evelyn feels a muscle in her cheek twitch. On the one hand, she sees no reason to try to convince that arsehole Lord Seeker of _their worth_. On the other, Evelyn has been deftly avoiding further confrontation with Casssandra like the blight, and would like to continue doing so.

"Let's play a game, Seeker." she says lightly.

"Herald, this hardly seems the time." Cassandra says, nonplussed, "And what of my suggestion—"

"The game goes like this. We go into a shop, preferably one with really expensive merchandise, like fine pottery or Rivaini rugs, and then switch around the price tags to the wrong places. The first person to get caught loses."

"That sounds incredibly childish." Cassandra sighs, but cottons on enough to drop the subject of templars.

"You know, there's a funny thing I've found about most adults. They only call things childish because they're afraid what people might think if they actually did something fun.”

"I can be fun," the Seeker protests, face squinching into a scowl.

Evelyn bursts out laughing. Cassandra's lips twitch subtly with humor.

“Don’t feel bad, Seeker. I’m starting to think that I’ve grown out of fun too.”

They are approached twice while they wait for Varric and Solas to return. 

Once by a courier with a fancy piece of parchment requesting their presence at a  _Madam de Fer’s_  soiree. He bows deeply over Evelyn's hand after she takes the invitation from him, kissing her knuckles in what she supposes he thinks is a gallant gesture. After he walks away, Evelyn wipes her hand on Cassandra’s trousers, paying no heed to the Seeker’s disgusted noises of protest.

The second time, it is the former Grand Enchanter of southern Thedas herself. Fiona is entirely too haughty for someone who is at least partially responsible for the continent’s descent into chaos, but she is at least marginally more tolerable than the Lord Seeker. Even better, she offers a negotiation with the rebel mages.

Evelyn cannot profess to ever having been fond of mages, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers (and she certainly won’t be going to the templars). She promises a meeting in Redcliffe.

=== === ===

They arrive back to Haven late at night, with only the intent to re-supply and brief the others before setting out for Redcliffe. She is now joined by the two newest agents of the Inquisition: Vivienne, a pompous and self-important mage with suspicious motives, and Sera, who hates authority figures more than Evelyn does, but lacks the education to express her displeasure without speaking nonsensically or shooting arrows. 

Evelyn finds herself already on edge with both of them, as they had spent the whole journey sniping at each other over simple classicism. She silently vows to never take them out on the road together again.

The soldiers manning the doors tense briefly when they see Evelyn’s party emerge from the shadows, hands ready to draw swords until they recognize them. She almost laughs at this, and can’t help but think that two men guarding the entry to a non-fortress (armed with unloaded trebuchets and a wooden stake fence) would do much to scare off a real threat.

Evelyn sends Cassandra to retrieve the advisors and makes directly for the council room. If she is lucky, she might catch three hours of sleep before they haul out in the morning. And Maker, does she need those hours, because otherwise she might snap, exhausted as she is.

The room is not empty when she enters, occupied already by the Commander, who leans heavily over the war table and mutters under his breath while he re-arranges some troop markers.

“Commander. Glad you're here already." Evelyn sighs, rubbing at her temples.

He glances up at her, and Evelyn notices some purplish circles forming beneath his eyes, and that the stubble is thicker at his jaw than when she last saw him.

“Good evening, Herald.” His voice is gruff with exhaustion.

"You look fantastic." she says, “What’s your secret?”

"What?"

“Did you pay someone to give you those bruises under your eyes, or did you have to bash them on yourself? Either way, very flattering look for you.”

He stares at her blankly. The sarcasm probably can't penetrate his listening comprehension through the sleep deprivation.

“What I mean is, when was the last time you slept?”

“Last night.” 

"Managed a two minute nap, did you?" she says, not believing him for a second. It annoys her that he would lie about something so stupid.

"Why?" He says defensively.

“I’m suggesting that maybe you should enjoy the use of a bed.” Evelyn grumps. “Some of us would kill to have the option to lie on something softer than the ground.”

“I didn’t have time.”

“Well, you look like you’ve caught the blight. You should have time enough to avoid that.”

“Should I?” he says, voice flat.

“Your job is to look pretty, after all,” and Evelyn adds, before she can stop herself, “I don’t know what else you might be good for.”

“I was not  _aware_ ,” The Commander grits, “that someone else was coordinating troop movements, training new recruits, and badgering the requisition officer for more equipment this whole time.”

Evelyn shuts her mouth. If she goes back and listens to her own voice in her head, Evelyn can hear the nasty tone she had been using and her suggestion that Cullen is less than useful. Shit.

“If you would like to take over those responsibilities so that I might slack off, be my guest.” Cullen continues.

Evelyn is unsure how to proceed. Her fallback comments about questionable parentage or blatant idiocy are out of place here. She decides on saying, “I was only trying to help, Commander. Everyone needs to sleep.” as neutrally as possible. She comes out sounding like a duplicitous ass, and she wants to smack herself.

He is taken aback, blinking at her as though he has just woken up.

“Herald, please excuse me. I did not mean. That is—” he begins.

The door behind them opens, and Cassandra is followed closely by Leliana and Josephine. The three of them eagerly cut in with discussion about the conditions of the Redcliffe mages. Evelyn carefully pretends as though she is not bothered, refusing to look back up at the Commander for the duration of the meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****RE-WRITTEN as of 03/17/2015, LAST EDITED as of 06/30/2015****
> 
> I apologize for the further rewrite of this chapter. Some of you may have noticed the disappearance of several conversations I had previously included here--don't worry, they will all be back later, in some form or another. Hopefully updates will start coming more quickly now that I am past the block this chapter has given me for the past month!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to remind people who haven't looked at this story in a while that I have rewritten large chunks of the story. I hope this doesn't cause too much confusion. I am so sorry for the inconvenience!

The sun is just starting to peek out over the Frostback range when Evelyn emerges from her cabin, bleary-eyed and not nearly well rested. She trots a brisk circuit around Haven, dropping off the requisition supplies she had promised with Threnn and haggling over the price of a larger quiver and finer arrows with Seggrit. She collects Vivienne, Solas, and Cassandra along the way, telling them to gear up so they can accompany her to the Storm Coast.

Evelyn had hoped not to make yet another prolonged tour of Ferelden’s wet muck in the near future, but has been forced by a stern word from the Spymaster to make weeks’ worth of detours (assessing the Chargers’ mercenary company and tracking down a Grey Warden) before she can actually go and negotiate with the mages in Redcliffe.

Why these tasks could not be delegated to others in the Inquisition, Evelyn doesn’t know. After all, if what Kremisius had told her was true, Josephine should be more than capable of deciding the Charger’s suitability for hire based on the recommendations provided by those within noble circles. And Leliana, omniscient force of nature she is, could easily have sent her scouts to approach Warden Blackwall for information.

Evelyn rather suspects that it’s because the advisors want to keep her away from Haven as much as possible, performing menial tasks that appear more meaningful than they are. No matter what Leliana said to her when she first joined up, Evelyn has become a morale-boosting puppet, shoved about the map of Thedas as easily as one of their tokens on the war table.

In fairness, she  _had_ _said_ she didn’t want to lead. It just rankles a bit, knowing that she has slipped out from underneath her family’s thumb only to find shelter beneath the Inquisition’s fist.

Evelyn is almost fully prepared to leave, waiting on Horsemaster Dennet to finish outfitting her mount, when Commander Cullen approaches her. They have not spoken since the meeting in the council room the night before.

"Lady Herald." He greets her quietly with a subdued bow, his hand rubbing at its usual perch behind his neck.

"Commander."

He glances over his shoulder at her companions, who are packing the last of the supplies into their saddlebags.

“May I speak with you?”

Anxiety clenches around her stomach.  

Evelyn had spent most of her night pacing a hole in the floor, imagining what she could have said or done differently in the council room with Cullen. In all likelihood, she couldn’t have kept from insulting him if she tried, so unable was she to control her habitual rudeness.

It would have been great if he could just forget about it, and then she could pretend it had never happened in the first place.

“Fine. Yeah.”

“I just wanted to apologize for my earlier behavior."

She blinks. Why on this side of the Veil would _he_  think he needed to apologize? 

Evelyn opens her mouth, meaning to reassure him, to apologize for her own social ineptitude. "Could you be more specific? I’m not sure what you’re referring to.” is what comes out, sarcastic and cold. She doesn't look at him when she says it.

"I am speaking of when I snapped at you, last night.”

“Oh that? Don’t even think of it, Commander. I certainly haven’t.” She is finding it impossible to manage a simple _sorry_. 

Dennet leads her horse over, which ought to end their conversation, except Cullen takes the reigns from him before Evelyn can.

“Thank you, Dennet.” Cullen says in his authoritative _Commander_ voice, all the while frowning at Evelyn. “Might you check the other’s mounts’ equipment before their journey?”

“I already have, Commander. They look—”

“Again, would you kindly.”

Dennet grumbles to himself, but obliges, walking back around to Vivienne’s pale Imperial Warmblood. The Commander doesn’t usually assign such useless busy work.

“You know, he really did check all the horses over.” Evelyn tells him.

“I know. But I’m not leaving this discussion for when you get back.” he says sternly, less contrite, “Herald, please allow me to formally apologize.”

Evelyn wrings her hands in irritation. 

“I said it didn’t bother me,” she insists, “Is there something wrong with your hearing?”

“It bothers  _me._ I should not allow my stress to affect my work ethic. I will not allow it, in the future. I need you to know that, Herald.”

Cullen stares at her intently, almost nervously, like he expects a proper scolding. He looks only a little better than he did the day before, clean shaven, but eyes still tired and bloodshot. His mouth sits in a firm downward line like it’s never known a smile in its life. Nobody  _wants_  to roll out of bed in the morning looking that way. His job has already taken a toll on him. Maker, it must have pissed him off to hear it from Evelyn’s mouth.

“Who said anything about your ability to work?”

“You did. And then I demonstrated your point by losing my temper.”

Evelyn suddenly realizes that this isn’t really about their small tiff at all, and in fact has very little to do with her at all. Cullen only wants to reaffirm his competence and prove that he is better than a misstep of courtesy.

"It’s okay.” Evelyn says, patting his arm stiffly. She thinks of Josephine and tries to channel the Ambassador’s graceful tact. “You’re clearly under a lot of stress. And you must be exhausted from having to oversee of all of the troop activity. I’ve behaved much worse under better conditions.”

"That's not—," he pauses for a moment, as though considering his next words carefully. "Still, it was unworthy of me. I hope you might forgive my impertinence."

"Yes. I mean, I do. Also. I should say that it was my fault too. More so than yours.” That last bit is like yanking shrapnel out of a festering wound—necessary, but agonizing.

“How so?” he asks with genuine confusion.

“I didn’t. I don’t… I’ve said it before, Commander. I have a hard time with this, this courtesy thing. I’m—I don’t always speak kindly. It provokes people.”

“Ah, but’s that’s just how you are.”

Evelyn knows that the Commander does not mean this as a jab, but it feels like one all the same. It deflates her, knowing that he thinks she’s so callous that there is no point in trying to correct her when she wrongs him. Does everyone think of her this way? (She probably deserves it.)

Evelyn turns and climbs onto the chestnut Forder. Her travelling companions take their cue, mounting even though Dennet has not finished his unnecessary third equipment check. The Commander hands her the reigns.

“Is this properly settled then, in your book?” she asks him.

He nods, “Safe travels, Herald.”

=== === ===

Evelyn turns a deaf ear to her companions for several hours while she navigates from the front, deep in contemplation (and brooding, if she is being honest). Her concentration is not broken until Cassandra addresses her.

"Herald."

"Seeker."

"You should not take your disagreements with the advisors so personally."

"What?"

"I have noticed you sulking on your horse all day. It is unbecoming of one in your position."

"I agree, Seeker," Vivienne interjects, all proper enunciation, "Darling, you have such a graceful back. Don't waste it by slouching in the saddle."

Evelyn turns around to loose a scathing retort, but is immediately sidetracked: "Have you been riding side-saddle this whole time?” she demands incredulously.

“I never sit fully astride a horse, dear. It is not the lady’s way of riding.”

“We’ve been going for hours. How the fuck are your hips not in permanent misalignment?”

"A lady should never use vulgar language either, dear. I might suggest you drop it, if you want to be taken seriously among more civilized circles." Vivienne says crisply, looking down her nose at Evelyn.

“Wow, you’re so full of amazing tips. How have I survived without you for all these years?”

“I’m not sure, darling. I would be happy to instruct you in etiquette if you like.”

Evelyn finds it inexplicably infuriating how Vivienne can brush off her annoyance without acknowledgment. “I grew up in a noble household, so it’s not that I don’t know etiquette, _dear,_ it’s that I choose not to use it because there’s no faster method of pissing away valuable time.”

“And here I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. How unfortunate that I should be proven wrong.”

Evelyn used to file the heels of her sisters’ boots down to uneven stubs when they were being difficult. It’s been years since she’s indulged the habit, but Evelyn is sure she’ll have no trouble picking it up again when she kidnaps Vivienne’s shoes later.

"Herald, back to the point." Cassandra says, drawing her attention away from the Enchanter, "Your advisors are there to give you their opinion, but you must remember that they are informed by different experiences. You must consider that they are not always going to agree with you, nor are they always going to give you the advice best suited to the situation."

"What are you on about, Cassandra?” Evelyn sighs, becoming increasingly exasperated with what has apparently become _lecture hour._

“Your argument with Commander Cullen this morning. I can only assume he confronted you about your decision to approach the mages?”

“Wh—no! That’s not what we were talking about.”

 “Oh,” Cassandra looks taken aback, “I just assumed. What  _were_ you arguing about then?”

“What makes you think it was an argument?”

The Seeker taps her heels against her horse’s sides, drawing level with Evelyn at the head of the group. Evelyn turns her whole torso to the right to watch her, blinking rapidly.

“You seemed upset.” the Seeker says in a lowered voice, excluding the others from the conversation entirely.

Since when has Cassandra deemed herself Evelyn’s confidante? Just two weeks ago they were both ready to eat each other alive.

It takes her a moment to decide whether or not to blow the Seeker off, and she ends up surprising herself.

“The Commander and I did have a disagreement. But earlier than this morning. Last Night. My fault.”

“Your fault how?”

“I said something rude, then he said something rude, but I was ruder than he was.”

“What an illuminating explanation.” Cassandra says dryly.

“It doesn’t really matter does it? I think I’ve spent more time thinking and talking about the incident than I did actually living it.”

“You sound as though you are trying to convince yourself of that point. If it does not matter, then why have you been so morose?”

“Because it’s not fun to consider your own personal failings, is why.”

"Well, you _do_  have a tendency of..." Cassandra frowns contemplatively.

"What, then?" Evelyn says impatiently.

“Of exercising your tongue without discretion.”

Evelyn has been incapable of controlling her bursts of annoyance for as long as she can remember. Among her siblings, she had always been most likely to get the switch because she was _a)_ never able to keep her mouth shut, and _b)_ quick to move to tears when she was upset. And though the latter trait has disappeared with time (she hasn’t let herself cry since the day she left home), the former is as prominent as ever.

“That is not, in any way, new information to me.” Evelyn chuckles darkly.

“You are aware of this and yet you make no effort to control yourself? Despite your own admission of remorse?”

Evelyn goes quiet and stares straight ahead.

She knows Cassandra is right. People do not respond well to her poorly timed japes. Evelyn  _knows_ they don’t. So it should be easy to fix it right? Stop herself from doing it?

But she is just so accustomed to hiding herself behind a sharp tongue that it has become her constant shield. She doesn’t know who she is without it.

Evelyn could try to stop, but change is never so easy as simply declaring it so.

“I would not suggest that you change who you are, Herald. But it could not hurt to show others your kinder side more often.” the Seeker says.

“You say that like you think I even have one.”

“A truly malicious woman would not be caught dead weaving elfroot crowns and inventing bedtime stories for refugee children.”

Evelyn’s head snaps around. Cassandra has a little smile playing around her lips.

“Who told you about that?!”

“No one told me, and I would not believe them if they had. I saw it myself.” Cassandra continues before a crimson-faced Evelyn can make her excuses, “Do try not to goad the Commander too much in the future, Herald.”

“Why? Is he liable to cry if I take it too far?” The mental image of perfect storybook knight Commander Cullen throwing himself onto a bed and weeping into the pillows like an overly dramatic teenage girl is hugely amusing. She snorts, loud and involuntary.

“The Commander is by no means fragile, Herald,” Cassandra says, shaking her head, “but he has enough on his plate already.”

“If it please you, my lady,” Evelyn says mockingly, “I shall treat him like a delicate flower.”

Cassandra gives her a look.

“Okay, okay, I will tone it down. Honestly. Alright?” Evelyn sighs.

The Seeker nods her satisfaction, and then something seems to occur to her.

“What I do not understand is why you are not half so bothered when you are rude to  _me._ ” Cassandra says accusingly.

“Well it’s just more satisfying to watch your blood pressure go up. It’s less like kicking a puppy and more like poking a poisonous snake with a stick. More dangerous, maybe, but also kind of satisfying. Plus, it feels like the natural way of things. We were destined to hate each other from the first.”

Cassandra is quiet for a long moment before she answers.

“I do not hate you, Herald.”

There is an even longer moment before Evelyn replies.

“I… don’t hate you either, Seeker.”

Evelyn kicks her horse ahead of Cassandra’s. A distinct feeling niggles at the back of her mind, the wary instinct you get when you wade too far into the ocean. Evelyn isn’t prepared to tread this deep in personal territory.

=== === ===

By the time her party reaches Redcliffe, Evelyn has dismissed both of her mage companions in favor of Iron Bull and Blackwall.

Even though the group now lacks a balance of combat skills among its members, Solas and Vivienne had just been too much—the bickering between them as bad as she and Cassandra had ever managed. And worse, they were constantly trying to out-do each other in skirmishes, double cloaking their barriers over each other and setting things simultaneously to fire and ice.

When Iron Bull offers his services as her personal frontline bodyguard, she all but shoves Solas at the Chargers, telling him to escort them back to the Inquisition’s holdings.

“Age before beauty.” Vivienne says, waving them off with an embroidered handkerchief (Evelyn has no idea where she has produced it from, with how tight and lacking of pockets Vivienne’s outfit). “I do hope your back does not give out before you reach Haven, Solas dear. That would be  _most_ unfortunate.”

The thinly veiled annoyance on Solas’s face would have been hilarious if Evelyn had not been so preoccupied by imagining the potential fireballs.

After he leaves, Evelyn thinks she’s seen the end of it, but is quickly proven wrong.

Evelyn and Solas had never gotten on  _swimmingly_  per say, but Vivienne is another kind of monster entirely. Where Solas had gently prodded her into mild debates or maybe scowled once in a while when she said something disrespectful, Vivienne is _excessive_ in her advisement.

"Chew like you have a secret, dear." 

and

"Surely you don’t want to birds to come roost in your hair, darling. Perhaps you should make it look less like a nest." 

and

"My dear, why must you insist rubbing your eyes like that? You shall have crow's feet before you hit thirty. Or before thirty hits you, I should say."

It was like the finishing school Evelyn never got to attend.

When they unexpectedly acquire Blackwall’s services, Evelyn invents an excuse—a potential mage recruit for the Inquisition that only Vivienne can persuade into joining—to send the enchanter off to the nearby refugee camp.

The group dynamic becomes infinitely more relaxed with Bull’s easy-going humor and Blackwall’s unobtrusive civility, and Evelyn would be in better spirits for having gotten rid of the constant nannering were it not for an Inquisition scout informing them of Arl Teagon's departure from Redcliffe. 

If there is one thing she's learned as a Bann’s daughter (even as an  _inadequate_  daughter), it’s that a noble should never to leave their holdings so wholly unprotected. Such was the lesson taught by the decade-old horror story of the Howe’s slaughter of the Couslands.

Her inner warning bells ratchet higher as they make their way through the seaside market, which strongly reminds her of the Inquisition's refugee camp a few miles southeast. Redcliffe’s infrastructure is in much better shape, lacking the rubble and worn shacks, but the mages and common folk living there have that same look about them—broken down, backs in permanent slump as they feign the motions of a daily routine.

At least these mages conduct themselves better than the rogues Evelyn had been fighting in the hills. They have organization and a willingness to maintain order. Despite Vivienne’s earlier dismissive remarks about their selfish idiocy, Evelyn admires them in this at least.

Evelyn and her party enter the tavern where Fiona waits, surrounded by an attaché of two or three twitchy looking mages, and tension in her gut coils further.

It is only one short hour later—after learning of the Grand Enchanter’s apparent deceit and her alternative business arrangements with an oily Tevinter magister—that they climb the hill up to the Redcliffe Chantry.

“We could be walking right into a trap. I do not like it.” Cassandra mutters.

“Oh, but the rest of us  _do_ like it.” Evelyn hisses.

“Herald.”

“Sorry.” she says as sincerely as she can manage beneath her irritability, “My bloody hand is acting up again.”

It’s the pervasive cramp that always starts up when she gets near a rift. The pulsing ache works its way upwards, and by the time they are at the Chantry doors, it extends from the tips of her fingers up through her shoulder. (And it sparks a bit too, which would be a fun party trick if it weren’t so damn startling.)

Evelyn flexes it carefully and pulls her bow from her back, hearing the others draw their weapons as well. She notches an arrow and kicks the doors wide.

As she expects, there is a garish rift flickering in mid-air, situated just above the pulpit at the back of the chapel. What she does not expect is the tawny-skinned man (a man who is decidedly  _not_ Felix) twirling a mage’s staff in between the pews, setting a Wraith aflame.

"Ah good!" he declares, "You're finally here! Do give me a hand, won’t you?"

Her companions are less fazed than Evelyn, reacting with practiced speed. Cassandra captures the attention of a rage demon with a loud battle cry, and Iron Bull charges past her to engage a spindly terror demon with massive swings of his greatsword. Blackwall shields himself and Evelyn from a Wraith’s blast. Evelyn decides to dart left behind the pillars as Blackwall moves away.

Archers are always the weakest link in a group if they don't know how to strafe and fire at the same time—a fact with which Evelyn had become intimately, painfully aware when a templar knight had bashed the air out of her lungs during a particularly thick and confusing battle. It had taken a week of Solas’s healing draughts to heal those bruised ribs. 

She weaves around the furthest pillar from the main doors, loosing three arrows in a quick volley when she sees that a demon has slowed the Seeker’s footwork in a puddle of sludge-like ichor. Evelyn watches Cassandra regain her balance and slash her sword through the demon’s arm before ducking down behind the benches near the pulpit.

She pulls three more arrows to sit in her firing hand and pops back up, prepared to aim at the nearest target and dart away—and sees her mistake too late. In the bare seconds that she spent drawing arrows, another terror demon has escaped the rift, materializing dangerously close in front her.

Time seems to slow down as she watches the demon’s claws come down toward her face. She doesn’t have time to roll through its legs or dive backwards, and the force of the blow will at least knock her out, even if it doesn’t throw her through the air. She braces herself.

But then its talons bounce away ineffectually, and the demon is tossed several feet away onto its back. Evelyn blinks in confusion (hadn’t she gotten rid of her mages?), then sees that the stranger-mage has moved out from between the pews and positioned himself behind her left shoulder, casting a purplish barrier around them both.

“You can thank me later,” the mage tells her, smug humor apparent under his meticulously groomed mustache.

Evelyn salutes him, half-assed and paired with a sarcastic expression, before she weaves away around the pillars again. She reassesses her companions’ positions as she moves, deciding to flank one of the three rage demons parrying with Blackwall. Instead of hanging back and maintaining his barrier like she expects him to, the mage shadows her movements, running just behind her and echoing her volleys of arrowfire with great flourishes of lightening.

Evelyn skids to a stop at the other end of the chapel, kneeling to take aim at a demon’s head from around a baluster, drawing the bow fully for power. Just before she releases, the mage flicks a stream of ice, freezing her target solid. The arrow shatters it to pieces, just like it would smash through a glass window.

The mage gets that cocky look again, winking at her like they aren’t in the thick of demon spawn. Except, the man must be a moron, because he’s completely failed to notice the same terror demon he had repelled just moments ago (she can tell because part of its arm is singed from the mage barrier), stalking them from behind. It makes to lunge at the mage. Reflexively, Evelyn draws—sees the split-second where the mage thinks she is aiming at  _him_ —and shoots.

It’s a particularly good shot, so clean that it streaks through the demon’s head and into one of the ceiling beams. The mage is properly impressed.

“You can thank me later,” she parrots at him, whirling away before she can tell whether her mocking will agitate him.

Cassandra and Bull are wrangling the last demon when she lines her hand up with the rift, shielding her eyes from its green light. The strands of light connect, whirring and pulsing until the rift implodes itself out of existence. The terror demon bellows its last unnerving cry just as Cassandra lops its head off.

"Fascinating." the mage says, at her shoulder again, "How does that work exactly?"

Evelyn folds her arms across her chest, too grumpy about the fresh demon slop in her hair ( _ugh,_ the  _smell)_ to pretend to be friendly with the stranger.

"You have no clue, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and, _boom_. Rift closes." he continues, utterly unfazed.

"I was expecting Felix. Who are you supposed to be?"

"Ah, please excuse my manners! Dorian of House Pavus of Minrathous at your service! And you, my lady...?"

"Evelyn. Herald of something or other."

"A pleasure." he replies.

"Vint." Bull grunts behind her.

“Magister.” Cassandra says, in the same manner as someone who has discovered nug shit on their new boots.

"Alright, I'll say this once. I’m a mage from Tevinter, not a member of the magisterium. Honestly you Southerners sound so barbaric when you mix it up." Dorian huffs.

"Clearly, we're awful. Though that doesn’t explain why all of you seem to be flooding over our borders of late. Vacation fad?" Evelyn says in Tevine. It is not as fluent as it had been in her youth, but she thinks it passable enough for a native speaker to understand.

Dorian startles.

"You speak my native tongue! Perhaps this will not be so difficult as I had imagined." he says with distinct pleasure, giving her a winning smile, “I knew I liked you.”

“That’s funny. I’m not sure the sentiment goes both ways.”

“What if I told you a little story? It involves my former mentor, Magister Alexius, his involvement with a Tevinter supremacist cult, and a little dabbling in dangerous time magic?” Dorian says, unfaltering in his bravado.

Evelyn blinks several times, processing that more slowly than she would like.

“Couldn’t you be a little more creative than that?” Her mouth says, without permission from her brain.

Dorian laughs, and just like that, Evelyn decides that she _does_ like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****LAST EDITED as of 06/30/2015****


	8. Chapter 8

_The wooden pier on the Jagged Coast is just as she remembers it, jutting out precariously from between the many boulders dotting the beach._ _If she kneels down and presses her face against the sodden wood planks, they will smell of algae and salt. If she turns away from the water, she will see the sheer cliff face looming behind her, with Ostwick’s ramparts and towers perched at the top._

 _The pier’s rickety construction is a superfluous oversight, built in the short time before Tevinter sailors had realized the dangers of sharp rocks grinding against their ships’ bellies in the shallow water. Since then, this part of the bay hasn’t been much disturbed._ _For this reason—its utter uselessness and complete abandonment—the pier is one of Evelyn’s special, secret sanctuaries._

_She is distracted by an abrupt fall of light, the sun melting into the horizon. The foamy rush of waves and gulls’ cries go silent._

_The scene is still familiar, yet now eerily different._

_The sky above is black and utterly devoid of stars. The ocean below reflects the pitch of the heavens perfectly, in one long, placid, inky pool. Both are so dark that Evelyn cannot see where they touch in the distance._

_The black stretches out infinitely before her, broken only by a jagged outcropping of glowing red rock protruding from the water. The rock pulses and flickers like flames in a bonfire, but structurally looks more akin to an iceberg, hinting at a behemoth structure hiding under the surface._

_“Hot or cold?” she ponders._

_In the space between two breaths, she is standing at its side, close enough to reach out and touch._ _She lifts her palm up, fingers suspended bare inches from the stone._

 _It feels like something intangible, neither blistering nor frigid, but still, a_ feeling  _radiating out like the red light,_

_“Hungry.” it sighs softly. “Hungry.”_

_Startled, Evelyn pulls her arm away._

_“Feed me.” it whispers in many voices, voices that layer together and over each other, “We are starving.”_

_“I have nothing to feed you.” she tells it._

_“But we are here.” The whispers turn harsher, more aggressive._

_“I know. I see you.” she says tremulously, “Doesn’t mean I should feed you.”_

_“We have waited for ages. So hungry.”_

_“For what?”_

_A tapping sound starts from within the rock—something trying to get out—and her heart jumps into her throat._

_“We awaken.”_

_“No, don’t!” Evelyn begs, “Go back to sleep!”_

_The tapping gets louder, louder, louder, until it is hammering, rattling the whole rock._

_She stumbles backward in fear. Her feet are clumsy. They slide, unable to grip the ground._ _She looks down and sees smooth water underfoot._

 _“Oh!” She gasps, remembering,_ _and slips under the surface._

Evelyn starts awake in bed, legs struggling for purchase in twisted sheets. Tremors run through her whole body, and she can hear the whooshing of her heartbeat loud in her ears. The same insistent, rattling from her dream beats through her cabin and she claws around wildly, looking for her quilt. She can’t find it.

She is left with nowhere to cower and hide.

“Hey, boss!” Iron Bull’s voice says from outside, muffled through the door, and Evelyn realizes that it’s just his knocking.

“What?” she says, loud enough that he should hear her.

“Open up!”

She looks down. Her sleep shirt is soaked in sweat, and she is naked the rest of the way down.

“Hold on. Just—just a minute!”

Evelyn yanks herself free of the constricting linens and crosses the room to her dresser. She digs around and finds some trousers, hastily pulling them on and tucking her shirt into the waist.

In front of the small mirror on her desk she combs through her cropped hair a few times, attempting to smooth out the stubborn cowlicks. The short style she wears has grown longer and messier since she’s been here, but with no one (but Vivienne) around to nag her into trimming it she couldn’t be bothered to care.

When Evelyn swings the door open, the Iron Bull is crowded up in the doorframe, towering over her. His form is so massive that she can’t see the anything outside except pebbles and chunks of hard snow scattered at his feet.

“What.” she says too breathlessly, and reminds herself to pull it together.

“You weren’t in bed, were you?” he says with a lopsided grin.

She straightens the loose collar of her shirt and sweeps down the front to smooth out the damp wrinkles. Her hair is still a fright, and her skin feels pale and clammy. The bed behind her is undone in twists of sheets, quilt crumpled at its foot.

The answer to his question is only too obvious, and Evelyn tells him so.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me! It’s barely evening, boss.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” she says distractedly, “Is there something you wanted?”

“I came by to drag you down to the tavern with me. The Chargers are itching to see if you can hold your drink.”

She can still feel the remnants of the nightmare breathing down her neck, spreading goose pimples over her arms. She closes her eyes, briefly, to master herself, and sees the pulsing evil stone, just the same as the red lyrium in Alexius’s twisted future.

“No. Goodnight.”

Bull’s hand shoots out before the door closes, faster than Evelyn could have anticipated. She flinches instinctively, forgetting her hold on the doorknob, and his palm flattens on the wood, holding it fully ajar with his whole weight.

“Come on, boss. The dwarf is looking to start a game of wicked grace. He said it wouldn’t be the same without you.” he says casually.

She squints at him. (Varric has never once expressed interest in her activities outside of Inquisition business.)

“He did not.”

“How do you know?” he replies, still with that easy smile.

She thinks of the Iron Bull in the Recliffe future, broken down from a year spent exposed to red lyrium. Resigned and singing  _99 Bottles of Beer_  in a cell. She shivers.

“It’s your job to be a liar, Iron Bull.” Evelyn rubs her temples, subtly wiping the sweat on her temple away. “Why do you need me to come to the tavern with you, really?”

He makes a thoughtful face—like he’s weighing his options—and decides on bluntness.

“I’ve a got wager with some of the others riding on it. Blackwall and Varric are convinced you won’t come by because you don’t like to bother with people. Sera says you won’t because you’ve got one of those arrows stuck up your ass.”

“What a charming image.” she rolls her eyes, “I’m just surprised she didn’t illustrate it with one of her crude little drawings.”

“Who says she didn’t?”

Evelyn clenches her fists.

“And what did your Chargers think?”

“Krem bet the same as the others.”

“So basically everyone thinks I’m a big wet blanket.” she huffs sourly, trying to remember that she doesn’t care.

“Nah, not true.” Bull says playfully, “ _I_  came here to get you didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did. And on some pretty bad odds. What for?”

“Just had a feeling about you, boss. Ben-Hassrath, remember?” He taps his forehead.

The Iron Bull is usually so forthright that she often forgets he’s a Qunari spy (which is probably not an accident, now that she thinks of it). Evelyn wonders what he sees when he looks at her—if he knows her old habits from the tells in her expression—or if he has figured out why she doesn’t do comradery or tavern companionship anymore.

“How much do you get if you win your bet?”

“Ten silvers from each.”

She decides a one-time exception won’t kill her. “I’ll go if you split your winnings with me.”

“Oh?” he says with raised brow. Evelyn assumes the other one goes up too, but she can’t see it under that eyepatch.

“Consider it a small fee for your victory.”

Bull tosses his head back and laughs deeply. It’s a good thing that his body is so large, or his horns would throw his whole weight backwards.

“Deal.”

Evelyn snatches her coat off its rack, shoves her feet into her boots, and tromps outside. The door shuts firmly behind her. The Iron Bull watches her, looking entirely too smug for her taste.

They start walking, with Bull keeping a slower gait to match pace with her small stride.

“Interesting to finally see what gets under that thick skin of yours, boss.” Bull comments.

“I’m not bothered.” she says carefully.

“You might be hard to read sometimes, especially when you do that weird, uh, thing you do, but you’re a crap liar.”

“The thing I do.”

“You know, the weird—”

Bull plants his feet in the snow, shoulder width apart, his bulk as stiff as a board and his arms straight down at his sides. He smooths his face into blankness and looks her directly in the eye, and then just…blinks at her.

“What is that supposed to be?” she asks flatly.

“It’s that thing you do when you try to cover up whatever it is you’re feeling. I’ll be honest, people find it unsettling.”

They start walking again.

“I don’t  _do_  that.”

Up the main stairs.

“Sure you do. I’ll point it out the next time it happens, if you want.”

And around the last corner.

“I do not.” she insists stubbornly.

“You do.”

Iron Bull opens the tavern door for her and Evelyn is immediately overwhelmed. Warmth pools between the press of more bodies than the building should really fit. Torchlight flickers off of more faces than she can count. She hears a minstrel singing a bawdy sailing tune close to the bar where Flissa is feverishly refilling tankards. It smells strongly of sweat and ale.

Bull’s hand is broad on her back, steering her through the rabble of Inquisition recruits and soldiers and scouts. People see his bulk, the enormity of  _The_  Iron Bull, and they can’t stumble out of his way fast enough. No one seems to recognize Evelyn next to him, to her relief.

They make their way over to a corner and Evelyn is disoriented enough that it takes her a moment to recognize Varric and Blackwall sitting among some of Bull’s Chargers (who all seem awfully sloshed for this early in the evening, based on their shared chorus with the minstrel). All of them register looks of surprise when they see Evelyn standing there.

“Well shave my chest hair and call me an elf! Looks like we have to pay up, Buttercup. Our Herald is here after all.” Varric says, leaning back and looking under the table. His pen never stops scribbling over the parchment in front of him, a ledger of some sort.

“Aw, shite! Really, lady bits? Couldn’t’ve stayed in your hidey-hole like every other sodding night?” Sera emerges from beneath the table and digs around in her pockets with her tongue stuck out to the side. “Damn. Damnity-damn,  _damn_  it.”

“What were you doing under there?” Evelyn says.

“Wouldn’t  _you_  like to know?” Sera says, all cheek, but the subtle slide of a knife back into its sheath at her hip implies vandalism.

Sera hands her coin to Bull with an exaggerated pout, and there is a brief pause in side-conversation while everyone follows suit, digging through their purses with resignation and passing their money across the table into Bull’s large palm. He counts it out with gusto and slaps half of it in front of Evelyn.

Blackwall and Varric raise their eyebrows in unison, and Sera looks downright insulted.

“What’s that then?” Sera demands with gesture at the pile (which is quickly swept into Evelyn’s coat pocket).

“Boss wouldn’t come until I promised a share.” Bull explains, working hard not to laugh.

“Are you joking me?” Sera cries, while Varric chortles around the lip of his tankard, “Like she needs it! She’s prolly got loads already.”

“Oh, yes, I’m rolling in it. I only wear the same three things every day and bathe in freezing buckets of water because I like  _pretending_  to be poor.” Evelyn says flatly.

“Don’t play dumb! I heard Vivi-pompous-mage say you were a noble.”

“This will shock you Sera,” Evelyn says coldly, “but I identify with that about as much as you identify with other elves.  _Very little._ ”

“Either way, I can’t begrudge a shrewd business move.” Varric says over Sera’s further squawking, patting the open seat between himself and Blackwall in welcome.

Evelyn twitches uncomfortably. She’d shown up to make a point and collect her silver, but hadn’t actually thought to stick around.

“I think I’m going to head back, actually.” Evelyn says, starting to back away from the table.

“Not a chance.” Bull declares, guiding her around the table and into the chair with the same hand that ushered her through the tavern. Evelyn really wishes he would stop being so touchy-feely—especially with her back.

The Iron Bull and Sera seat themselves on the other side, and everyone else settles back down. While Bull orders drinks from a passing Flissa, Sera meets Evelyn’s eye in a challenging stare. The elf rests her chin on the crook of her elbow and drums her fingers on the table, looking altogether mutinous at Evelyn’s presence. 

An awkward silence falls over the table—discounting the Chargers, who are too drunk to be anything but raucous at their end of the benches. The rest of the tavern continues the buzz around them, making their hush even more out of place. Evelyn can see she has interrupted the group’s easy affability with her own natural tension.

She stands.

“I’ll go.” she says softly, rubbing the bridge of her nose awkwardly. Her throat aches.

“Speak up, boss. Can’t hear you.” The Iron Bull says.

“I said I’m going.” she says, but too loudly this time, underestimating the pitch of her voice.

A nearby recruit glances over reflexively, the way people do when one sound is incongruously loud over everything else. He startles with recognition and elbows his friend, who then pulls the sleeve of another person. Like some strange, mortifying chain reaction, all the heads in the tavern swivel in Evelyn’s direction, swells of conversation cutting out.

They all stare at her, the Herald of Andraste _(_ _“_ _Look, there she is._ Here in the tavern _.”—“Wonder why? Can you believe it?_ ”) in a drunken, uncomfortable stupor. Even the minstrel has stopped playing.

Evelyn’s legs won’t move.

Unable to look into the faces of her apparent worshipers (overeager spectators, more like), she looks down at the gouged wood of the table.  _SERA’S_ , it proclaims in messy dagger strokes. Underneath it, the elf has etched out a hand with its middle finger extended rudely and what appears to be a poorly rounded bum.

“Oi!” Sera says loudly, and in a show of solidarity she stands up on her chair and flaps her arms about, “If her holy lady bits wanted you arseholes to use your gobs for catching flies instead’a downin’ ale, she’d’a said so!”

Varric coughs pointedly, as though to underline the point.

The tavern’s response is slow but obliging, with men and women turning back to their own companions and the sound picking back up to a low buzz. Evelyn is certain they are still talking about her, but she can’t deny the relief. Nor can she deny sheer amazement at Sera's rescue.

Her shaking knees unlock and bend her back down into her chair. Flissa arrives with a fat mug of mulled wine. The barmaid nods respectfully as she places it in front of Evelyn, and Blackwall has to slide it closer to her after Flissa has left and Evelyn still has not touched it.

“Best thing to do when you’re uncomfortable,” he says sagely in her ear, “is have a drink.”

“Or five.” Evelyn agrees shakily, and takes a long draft. She cradles the mug close to her chest and curls her body up in the chair. Blackwall pats her on the shoulder and casually asks Sera a vague question to continue a story about  _circumstances._

Evelyn loses herself in the pattern of chatter and between sips of warm liquor. The others are content to ignore her mostly, talking of inconsequential things like Bull’s past mercenary jobs and teasing jibes at Blackwall’s forest-hermit status.

Now that she has been lulled back into calm, Evelyn is exhausted again. The whole room fades into obscurity around her. She thinks of her warm bed and then of her nightmare. The details of the dream have gone blurry, but that impression of deep fear when she awoke was so real. She thinks to forget it in the bottom of her glass.

Funny thing though—she never gets there. Her companions talk and talk and talk, and somehow her drink is never empty. She only becomes mellow and drowsy.

“Hey. Herald. What do you think?” Varric says. It sounds like he’s far away.

“Mm?”

She opens an eye that she hadn’t realized she’d closed and looks at him blearily. There are chuckles around her.

“We were just talking about my  _Tale of the Champion._  You read it?”

“I dun’ read fiction ver’ much.” everything comes out her mouth like mush, “Saw the cover of tha’ book once, though.”

“Hey! It’s not fiction!” Varric says with indignant amusement, “It all really happened.”

“ _Sure_  it did, Varric.” Iron Bull laughs, “I mean, the part with the Arishok, yeah. But not all that other crap.

“Not you too, Tiny! My biographical work is so underappreciated.”

Evelyn feels her head droop to the side and she lets it, resting it gently on her shoulder. Something occurs to her and she lightly bats the dwarf’s arm.

“Mph. Hey. Question.”

“What’s that?”

“Why,” she draws the word out in her mouth with an odd satisfaction, “does the portrait on yer books look like…all wrong?”

Blackwall and Sera lean over the table and whisper to each other with deep grins. She hears the words _herald_ and _piss drunk_ somewhere in there _._

“What do you mean?” Varric asks.

“Well,” she tilts her head up for emphasis and it ends up flopping to her other shoulder, “Yer never surrounded by a bevy ’a tavern wenches stroking yer lush chest hair in real life.”

The table explodes into a chorus of hooting guffaws and she is so impressed by the clarity of her joke (did she mean it as a joke?—who knows?) that she pats her own arm in congratulation. Varric maintains an unembarrassed grin even while Sera and Bull double over in their chairs, and Blackwall’s whole body shakes, and the Chargers catcall him from across the table.

“The portrait is only for effect. Wouldn’t want Bianca to get too jealous,” Varric pats the crossbow leaning against the wall behind him.

“Good point.” Evelyn slurs, and then promptly passes out.

She gains back an indistinct, swaying consciousness in what seems like bare moments. Evelyn is upside-down now, balanced limply like a sack of potatoes over something thick and unyielding. Her arms swing to and fro above her head—or are they below?—and her vision is filled up by a wide expanse of gray.

It’s cold.

“Ah, and here our Qunari friend is taking back the evening’s spoils to his lair.” She hears this comment from some distance away. The vowels are all amused and condescending and Tevinter.

“Vint.” Bull grunts. Evelyn can feel the unfriendly vibrations of his voice reverberate through her body.

“Iron Bull,” says another, decidedly less amused voice, “I hope you’re not taking advantage of that woman.”

“Good to see you out of that uniform, Cullen. There are rumors around camp that you’ve welded yourself into the metal bits, you know. And no need to worry, I’m just taking the boss back to her cabin.”

Evelyn giggles softly.

“That's the  _Herald_?”

“Yep.”

“What’s wrong with her?” the Commander demands.

“She’s fine. Just passed out drunk.”

The Iron Bull spins around demonstratively and her head spins with him. She laughs, lifting herself up with one elbow against Bull’s back to find Dorian and Cullen watching her.

“Hey.” she says to them and waves an arm loosely at them, “I dunno how I got up here. I was jus’ takin’ a nap, I think. ‘N then I was up here. ’S very high.”

She can’t tell exactly what, but there’s something wrong with Cullen’s face. It’s all screwed up with pinched brows and pursed lips. Dorian though—Dorian is delighted.

“Oh this is priceless!” the Tevinter says with a clap of his hands, “Our stoic Herald of Andraste, trussed up like a roast goose and thoroughly sozzled.”

“How much did you have to drink?” Cullen asks her.

She thinks about it.

“Good question.”

Cullen rubs his hands over his face while the other two snigger. Holding herself up takes far too much effort, so she lets herself fall back limp.

The others start talk more words, but she has no energy to parse them. Instead she becomes engrossed with a long, puckered scar on Bull’s back—from a mace? a flail?—for longer than she realizes, only coming to when the world goes right side up again.

“Wha-?” She sighs groggily, blinking up at Bull.

“You’re doing it again, boss.”

With unexpected gentleness, Bull slips her coat from her shoulders.

There is a grumbling noise to her right. She looks over, and Cullen and Dorian are standing in the doorway. Cullen is scowling unattractively.

“’R you mad ‘gain?” she asks the Commander.

“Again?” he says, expression fading to bemusement.

“You were _mad._ ‘Bout the mages.”

Cullen sighs deeply, shaking his head.

“No. I’m not angry with you.”

“Oh, good.”

She closes her eyes and when she opens them again she is laying down, boots off. The Iron Bull plucks the quilt off the floor and sweeps it over her so that it floats down gently atop her.

She remembers something.

“Iron Bull. Y’ said I was doin’ it again. Doin’ wha’?”

“The blinking thing, boss.”

Evelyn considers that.

“I d’not  _do_ tha’.”

“You do.”

She opens her mouth to protest, and then sighs, already deeply asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****LAST EDITED as of 06/30/2015****
> 
> Some of you earlier readers might recognize parts of this scene from earlier. Again, lots of rewrites, so I had to re-work this. Sorry for any confusion!


	9. Chapter 9

“What do you mean, you ‘can’t fix that’?” Evelyn demands. Her head is full of a raucous pounding and she finds herself squinting even in the dim light from the fireplace.

“I mean that it’s not my job to mother you.”

“You’re supposed to be an apothecary! When someone comes to you for healing—”

“Alchemist.” Adan says firmly, “I am an  _alchemist_. And I’m not going to help you with something that’s your own bloody fault.”

For the most part, Evelyn likes Adan. They share a similar bad-tempered snark. And when Evelyn harasses him or Adan harangues her, they can both walk away feeling none the angrier for it. He’s like the high-strung uncle from the family Evelyn would rather have been born into.

Today though—with the room spinning under her feet, and Adan largely ignoring her while he measures and chops a sheaf of embrium at his work table—Evelyn is about ready to beat him over the head with one of his pestles.

“Oh, please! It’s the same damned thing. They’re both about grinding herbs and making potions and lecturing people about the hallucinatory dangers of raw deep mushroom. And for the last time: Last night. Was. An. Accident.”

“That’s the problem with this place!” Adan stands and throws his apron to the ground with equal parts relish and disgust, “No one respects my work here. Do you understand how long it took to learn my craft? The school of alchemy is—nevermind _._ The point is that no one forced the liquor down your throat last night, Herald. I simply don’t have the extra resources to spare that can cure you of your own poor judgment. You get to live with your mistakes.”

“Don’t get coy with me about resources, you stingy old man! I just brought you a fresh batch of supplies two days ago.”

Evelyn looks pointedly at the wires pegged into the cabin walls, all of them heavy with bundles of drying plants.

“And for that I thank you, Herald. They will be put to good use. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much work to be getting on with.”

A headache pulses behind her eyes as she grinds her teeth.

“Fine. But when I’m ready to vomit later, I’m coming back here, and I’m going to aim it over whatever that business is.” Evelyn declares, gesturing at a large pot bubbling merrily over hot coals.

“Be my guest. Though I cannot say that the reaction between your acidic stomach fluids and that particular mixture will be anything less than _volatile_.” Adan sniffs.

“Ew.” Evelyn says vehemently, and stalks outside.

She cringes immediately under the force of aching sunlight, and though she shades her face and clenches her eyes shut, Evelyn is hit by a wave of dizziness that has her leaning against the exterior of the cabin and moaning pathetically. It probably wouldn’t be appropriate for the so-called Herald of Andraste to curl up into a ball on the ground, but it still takes considerable effort to keep herself from doing it.

She inwardly curses Adan. She hopes his plants wither. She hopes his stupid shack catches fire and burns down.

“Pst. Lady Herald.”

Adan’s elven assistant has followed Evelyn outside.

The woman is a pretty little thing. She always follows the alchemist’s snapped instructions furtively and without complaint. Evelyn has seen her around, caring for the woes and knee-scrapes of the few children in the camp, always with a sweet smile on her face.

“Yes?” Evelyn says as politely as she can manage while suppressing the urge to retch.

“There are some extra stocks of elfroot tincture in the Chantry supply closet. I can fix our catalogues so Adan won’t notice if one or two goes missing.”

“You darling  _gem_.” Evelyn mutters fervently, struggling back upright, bolstered by a swell of gratitude. The elven woman goes a delicate shade of pink and stares at her feet bashfully.

“’Tis no problem at all, your worship.”

Evelyn is reminded strongly of the women who had washed and mended and cooked and cleaned at the Ostwick estate—all of them tired and worn despite their youth. Once, she had asked her mother why only elves were staffed as their servants.

 _Because they are so naturally servile,_ her mother had said.

“Is there anything I can do?” Evelyn asks.

“You do so much for everyone already. I am only sorry to see you so ill.”

“I meant for  _you_ , personally, in return for this.”

The pink on the elf’s cheeks deepens into maroon.

“I need nothing at all, your worship.”

Evelyn glances down at the woman’s threadbare footwraps, to the soiled hem of her dress, and remembers the stash of Bull’s winnings from last night still buried inside her coat.

“Well then. Could you do me another favor?”

“Of course,” the elf says eagerly.

Evelyn flips her pocket upside down. Its contents spill into her waiting palm and she pushes all the coin into the elf’s unsuspecting hands.

“Take this off me, yeah? I can’t stand the jingling sound it makes when I walk around. It’s killing my head right now.”

The woman is stunned, looking from the not insignificant pile of silver and back to Evelyn’s face as though she expects a jest, then shakes her head wordlessly and tries to give it back. Evelyn pretends not see and tramps off without preamble.

The walk to the Chantry is a slow one (sick as she is, Evelyn moves at a bare trudge, sticking mainly to the shade) and she never finishes it because a scout intercepts her.

“Your worship—the yard.” the scout pants, leaning over her knees, apparently having just run the length of Haven.

“Could you be more specific?”

“An issue—in the training fields.”

“Who sent you to get  _me_ for that?” Evelyn groans. The Chantry doors are within sight, calling her name, a balm for her misery just inside.

“The Spymaster said if there were any trouble with the mages, it ought to be brought to your attention. And that you would deal with it ‘cause you were to the one who brought ‘em on.” The scout seems to realize the irreverent nature of Leliana’s order, and adds quickly, “Lady Herald. Your worship.”

“Andraste’s mabari bitch.” Evelyn swears and stumbles into a half trot toward the training fields. Each stride she takes jolts her stomach uncomfortably and she finds herself swallowing repeatedly so as not to heave. Everything hurts, and damn it, if she had just moved a little faster to the Chantry she could have had that tincture by now.

When she arrives just outside the Haven gates, trying to look less miserable than she feels, Evelyn sees that the training grounds are in a much worse state than she could have anticipated. The field has never been so full, or with so much scattered chaos.

 _An issue,_ the scout had said. The word  _clusterfuck_  seems rather more appropriate.

On the far west side, a few dozen fresh horses are being penned in Master Dennet’s stables. Most of the animals are well-trained enough to maintain relative composure in the pervasive noise of the yard, but some seem nervous and twitchy, eyes rolling in their great heads and hooves pawing the ground.

The stablehands are having trouble with one in particular—a large dark charger with sparking orange eyes. It’s more spirited than afraid, rearing and kicking at the handlers without restraint, and spooking the nervous horses even more. The stablehands’ shouts carry over the whole field as they attempt to herd the screaming animal back into its fence.

On the opposite end, a long caravan of covered wagons has just pulled into a crescent formation on the edge of the field. Its passengers are yet another wave of refugees from the Hinterlands, unloading their meager offering of supplies and a thin herd of druffalo for the Inquisition. A few of them are already bargaining with Seggrit over the worth of their stock. They are (predictably) angry over Seggrit’s (cutthroat) idea of reasonable prices. Their children run around wildly, weaving beneath the wagons and between their parents’ legs in a game of tag.

Whatever argument the refugees have with Seggrit, however, could not possibly devolve into anything as bad as the showing in centerfield, where Cassandra and Commander Cullen are locked in a fierce debate with Grand Enchanter Fiona. The din is too much for her to hear exactly what it’s about, but Evelyn can guess at the argument from the behavior of their charges: The soldiers and mages have taken up all the rest of the grounds, divided by an invisible line down the middle. Though the two groups do not directly engage each other, they are both caught up in fierce displays meant to convey dominance.

To the right, the soldiers work through their exercises in a fevered pitch, slashing and blocking and parrying with each other aggressively, as though fighting in truth. The mages on the left are playing much the same game, except, where the soldiers flash steel, the mages cast balls of flame with powerful strokes of their staves.

An enormous shriek of animal triumph calls from Evelyn’s left, lancing into her skull. She only just throws herself out of the way of the black charger which has escaped its stable and now canters along the path (bugling as gleefully as a horse might manage), while the stablehands pursue it on foot.

The refugee children think it’s a game, and run off behind the horse’s handlers, foolishly intent on catching an animal several times their combined weight. Both Dennet and the childrens’ parents begin hollering for their charges to return to form.

Through the entire horrid clamoring racket, Evelyn’s head is caught in undertow of dull, whirling pain. She sways on her feet, swallowing the bile rising in her throat and ruminating on her options. She couldgo cower in the dark, drink buckets of water, and hope the problem sorted itself out. Or she could fix this mess and pretend she was prepared for this eventuality.

Evelyn allows herself one long, miserable groan.

“Enough!” she bellows over the din, “ENOUGH!”

The commotion dies. The jittery horses go still, the refugees cease bargaining, the children scurry back to their parents with scolded expressions, and—most importantly—the soldiers’ and mages’ weapons fall to their sides.

Evelyn swallows yet more bile.

“Seeker Pentaghast,” Evelyn speaks so that everyone in the yard might hear, “explain.”

“The mages are demanding half the training yard for their own purposes.” Cassandra says, “ _Without supervision_.”

“We need it!” Fiona preens.

“The soldiers  _need_  it.” Cullen grinds out.

“Oh for what, so they can run around swinging their metal sticks at each other? What use will that be when the Herald needs to go seal the Breach?” Fiona says snidely, “And why would you need to supervise your allies, Seeker? Unless you are implying we are lesser than you.”

“Because abominations are inevitable and our soldiers’ work is crucial—”

“The mages’ assistance to your Inquisition is  _crucial._ How dare you—”

“I didn’t know,” Evelyn says curtly, cutting them off before the bickering goes further, “that you two were _also_ called Seeker Pentaghast. What an amazing coincidence that there should be three of you together here on this field.”

Cullen closes his mouth so quickly that it would be comical if Evelyn wasn’t busy pretending not to suffer another wave of nausea. Fiona is far less obliging, glaring darkly at Evelyn and muttering audibly to herself. (“Treated _like_ a child, _by_ a child. I never.”) Fiona’s resistance seems to send a wave of restlessness through both sides of the field, and though they are still focused on Evelyn’s every move, she suddenly feels as though she balanced precariously on a knife’s edge.

Evelyn finds herself scanning over the yard as though for a lifeline, and her eyes fall onto one woman standing back by the tents, armored in plate engraved with the Sword of Mercy and a bearing a philter of lyrium at her belt. She is distinct in her placid stillness, incongruously calm among the constantly shifting rabble of the field.

An idea stirs behind Evelyn’s headache.

“You there. What’s your name?”

The woman looks surprised at being addressed, but steps forward gamely. “I am Lysette, your worship.”

“A templar, yes?”—Evelyn gets a terse nod from Lysette—“But not the only one here, surely?”

“No, of course not. I am only one of the many the Inquisition sheltered after the Conclave. The others are stationed within the Chantry.”

“Fantastic. Round them up and bring them back here.”

A rumble of outrage rolls over the mages’ side of the field, but Lysette nods again like the question of Evelyn’s right to command never crosses her mind. She disappears through Haven’s main gate with brisk obedience.

“Looking to suppress us with templars so soon, Herald?” Fiona calls out, “I might have known you would abandon your promises so soon!”

Evelyn pointedly ignores the Grand Enchanter and gestures at a mage who seems more timid than his peers (and not nearly so mindlessly agitated), “You.”

“Ma’am,” he says faintly, looking horrified at being picked out from the crowd. His eyes dart between Fiona and Evelyn like there could be nothing worse than a reprimand from one or the other of them.

“Who are you?”

“Dedric Hyll,” he says nervously, “formerly of the Denerim Circle.”

“Come here.”

He doesn’t budge.

“Am I in trouble?” he asks in a high-pitched octave, “I swear I didn’t mean it, whatever it is I did—”

“Yes,” Evelyn says with an eye-roll, patience thinning, “I’m having you executed for the high crime of being a Fereldan. Just get over here.”

The Inquisition’s soldiers collectively snigger when the mage trips over himself to get to Evelyn, but she quickly singles out one among their number (a small woman with a wicked sword arm) to quell their amusement.

“You there.”

“Corporal Moss, your worship.” the woman says with a salute, “Infantry division.”

“You come here, too.”

“Is there a point to this?” Fiona demands impatiently, “Are we all to stand here until you are acquainted with every single person in the yard?”

A few of the mages titter half-heartedly while Moss marches forward (careful not to come too close to Dedric on Evelyn’s other side). Evelyn is careful to not so much as even look at the Grand Enchanter—determined to deny the woman any kind of power over her.

Instead, she gestures broadly between the mage and the soldier in front of each other, as though introducing non-mutual friends at a party, “Dedric, meet Moss. Moss, meet Dedric.” She claps her hands together with exaggerated satisfaction. “Great. Now we all know each other.”

The two of them stare at Evelyn blankly.

“Well go on. This is the part where you greet each other.” Evelyn insists.

They oblige, reluctantly, muttering quick  _hellos_  without making eye-contact.

“No,” Evelyn sighs, and tries more bluntly, “again. This time, though, pretend you don’t hate each other on principle.”

“This is beyond condescending.” Fiona interrupts again, scowling deeply, arms folded over her chest.

“Too bad you’ve all made it necessary with your immature posturing.” Evelyn tells her with false sweetness, “Believe me, I would have liked nothing more than to leave you all to your business, Grand Enchanter, but I can’t do that now you’ve proven your inability to play nice and share your toys.”

“Of course we’re not going to _play nice_ if you treat us like second class citizens. We—”

“I think you’re confused, Grand Enchanter. _Equality_ is not the same thing as getting _special treatment._ If you wanted to be coddled, you came to the wrong place. Now, if you’ll excuse us, the adults are talking.” Evelyn turns her attention back to Dedric and Moss, disregarding Fiona’s loud hiss of anger. “Go on, you two.”

Moss and Dedric’s greetings are only mildly less terse this time, but Evelyn doesn’t have the patience to sit here and play mediator until they’re best friends. Good enough.

“Congratulations. You’ve both just met your new sparring partner.”

Mutters rise among the soldiers and mages, and even among the refugees at the edges of the yard. Even Cassandra and Cullen look at her askance, like she’s grown a second head.

“Your worship, you cannot be serious!” Moss finally spits after getting over her initial shock. Dedric doesn’t have the courage to say anything so insubordinate, but his eyes keep flickering to the sword sheathed and Moss’s hip, clearly horrified at the prospect of spending any time with the pointy end. “Surely it can’t be protocol to simply—”

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Evelyn says loudly over Moss and the rising whispers in the field, “You’re all going to pair up like your friends over here—mages with soldiers. If our numbers are uneven, you’ll go into groups of three. Always at least one mage to a group. Clear?”

The last bit of her speech is drowned out though, because the crowd’s muttering explodes into a wave of angry yelling that conveniently reminds Evelyn of the splitting headache she had been subduing through sheer determination up to that moment. She tries to shout over the din (“Enough! Enough already!”), but no one is listening.

Evelyn can barely hear her own thoughts over the noise, except for a bizarre notion that she is _definitely_ about to regurgitate her organs out of her mouth, when Cassandra emerges from the discord, stomping through the disgruntled soldiers to Evelyn’s side. She holds a shield and sword aloft, and bashes metal against metal in a series of loud _clangs_ (sending thick pulses of pain reverberating around Evelyn’s head) _until everyone in the yard is silent once more._

Evelyn blinks at her in shock, and the Seeker merely raises her eyebrows as though to say ‘ _get on with it_ ’. Evelyn rallies.

“Do you all see that?” she says with a raised voice, pointing to the Breach, “ _That_ is why the Inquisition is here. The only thing that matters is fixing _that_ , and tracking down whoever is responsible. I don’t care if you’re a mage, or a non-mage, or a three-headed goat. You’re all a part of the Inquisition now, and there isn’t time to butt heads over our differences. So suck it up and find your partners.”

There are several long beats during which Evelyn is sure that she’ll be carried off and burned at the stake, but, by the count of five, there is a slow stirring of movement on both sides as they flow together. There are terse introductions, and few scattered handshakes, and a general air of reluctance, but they’re doing it, and that’s what Evelyn needed. She breathes again.

“Off to the side with you two.” She says to Dedric and Moss, who still linger nearby, staring at each other warily. They move further into the field together (stiffly, and maintaining a large cushion of distance) passing by Lysette and the templars who have arrived back from Haven.

 “Your worship?” Lysette says.

“There you are. You’re going to oversee this business.” Evelyn says, waving out over the slowly consolidating crowd, “Make sure nobody gets hurt, but remember that the mages are not your charges. They’re your allies and equals now. I expect you to treat them as such.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lysette says, and then leads the templars nearby to a small hill overlooking the field.

“That was an unexpected showing, Herald.” Cassandra says next to her, a faint note of curiosity coloring her voice.

“Ugh. Never again. The next crisis is your responsibility.” Evelyn says. Cassandra snorts with amusement and elbows Evelyn gently in the ribs.

A few minutes later, after the commotion has mostly died down and the mages and soldiers are beginning to coordinate the structure of their practice groups, Cullen and Fiona approach them from center field. Cullen is smiling faintly at her underneath his usual exhaustion, but Evelyn is back to suppressing her hangover, and so completely fails to smile back.

“I hope you are aware that this will turn out badly.” Fiona spits, “What gives you the right to force us into this kind of arrangement?”

Evelyn gives her the coldest look she can muster.

“Because I pulled your asses out of a Tevinter conspiracy. Because you’re no better or worse than our soldiers, and this is what it looks like to be treated equally. Because, as everyone seems intent on reminding me every five minutes, I am some sort of Herald. Apparently.”

Fiona looks at Evelyn like she’s never seen her before, as though startled.

“Good day, your worship.” she says, with a strangely respectful bow, and walks back to join her mages.

“It seems you’ve solved  _that_  problem, at least. For how long Fiona will be kept in line though, I could not fathom.” Cassandra muses.

“Indeed. But I think it will be a sufficient solution for the time being.” Cullen says. His eyes are warm on Evelyn. Probably grateful that she is finally doing something useful, Evelyn guesses.

“I live to please.” Evelyn sighs.

She is thinking again of that elfroot tincture in the Chantry, and of collapsing in her bed for a long nap—which of course makes that moment the perfect time for another scout to approach.

“Herald.” the scout says.

“Maker’s taint, what is it now?” Evelyn whines, “A tavern brawl I need to break up? Fire in the Chantry?”

The scout remains poised and professional.

“Missives for you, your worship.”

“I don’t…get mail.” Evelyn tells him hesitantly.

“They were most definitely addressed to you, Herald.” he says, handing her two thick folds of parchment.

The first is stamped with a simple design, the purple wax embossed with a cluster of grapes. It is somehow familiar to Evelyn, and yet she cannot recall where she’s seen it before. Evelyn traces her finger over the little round bumps with a frown, unable to place its origin.

She glances cursorily at the second letter and freezes, instantly forgetting all about the first. Its seal is grey wax stamped with a reared stallion bearing a crown, and is delicately bordered by a circle of tiny fleur de lis. Evelyn has no problem at all placing its origin—this is the seal placed on _all_ official Trevelyan correspondence.

She can feel the blood drain out of her face.

“Herald?” Cassandra says, clearing her throat. When Evelyn looks up, she can see that the others are watching her with concern, and she realizes how uncomposed she must look.

“Always take the bad news first,” Evelyn tells them with a false bravado, breaking the Trevelyan seal by flicking it open with a delicate swipe of her pinky.

_To the so-called “Herald of Andraste”,_

_I cannot describe the grief the Trevelyans felt, when they first heard of the explosion at the Conclave. It seemed that they had lost their daughter and a universally beloved Divine in one fell swoop._

_How quickly that heartache turned to shame, when they learnt of your true fate. They could hardly believe at first, how you were responsible for the explosion that killed thousands. Worse still, that you have flourished in the ashes, assisting in the formation of this ridiculous Inquisition and taking a false title claiming divine right._

_I must inform that, at this juncture, any and all contact with Lord Thibauld and Lady Guinevere will cease. Your right to inheritance is forfeit. Your ties to the Ostwick holdings are forfeit. And though they cannot legally compel you to relinquish your surname and title, I must inform you that these are now empty of any true meaning among the family circle._

_(I hope you are aware of the seriousness of this situation, Lady Evelyn, for no Trevelyan has been so completely disavowed in two ages. And I cannot possibly imagine that there will be any welcome back into the fold, even for one of the main bloodline, such as yourself. The only true hope you have is at the hands of the Maker—may you reflect and repent on your sacrilege.)_

_Your parents would have me leave you with these words:_

_Those who bear false witness_  
And work to deceive others, know this:  
There is but one Truth.  
All things are known to our Maker  
And He shall judge their lies.

_With Deepest Rebuke,_

_Eleazar Caliban, Ostwick_ _Hold Steward_

Evelyn is breathless by the end, and a hollow sound rings through her chest. She realizes it is a sad imitation of laughter.

“Herald? What is it?” Cullen asks warily.

Evelyn looks up at him, not knowing what her face might look like right now, and forgetting entirely to school it into blankness. He gazes back at her with something close to pity.

“I think that depends on your sense of humor.” Evelyn says bitterly, folding the letter back up and opening.

She can see that Cullen and Cassandra share a look out of the corner of her eye as she opens the second missive. She didn’t know what she was expecting, exactly—particularly after the heavy blow she had received from the first message—but it is just a handwritten report covering the recent decline of the Orlesian textile industry due to the rise in the quality and popularity of Antivan silks. The handwriting is a fanciful cursive, filled with looping flourishes—yet somehow completely impersonal.

“What’s this one?” she says quietly to the scout, who is still hovers at a respectable distance for her dismissal.

“Leliana thought you might ask, your worship. The report is just a front concealing the true message, hiding the writer’s intent in an uncommon code which used among a select few Orlesian bards. The Spymaster recognized it immediately.”

Evelyn blinks at him.

“This letter was sealed though. No one had opened it.”

“Leliana has provided a translation of the cipher on the other side.” he says.

“Do you understand how creepy and invasive that is?” Evelyn says indignantly.

“That’s Leliana for you.” Cassandra says, “I will have a conversation with her about this later, Herald, I assure you.”

Evelyn sighs with resignation and flips the parchment over.

_Herald,_

_Your presence at the Conclave was no mistake._   _You were intended to die._

_I will write again soon. Stay alert._

_~ B_

Evelyn has to reread this multiple times before the meaning sinks in, her eyes lingering over the threatening curves of the word _die_ for longer than she can help. She swallows hard. When she finally looks up, the scout is already loping away, likely to relay every minute detail of the exchange to the Spymaster.

“Hold these.” Evelyn says to Cullen, handing him the letters without a care as to whether he reads them. What does it matter? (What does anything matter?)

“Lady Herald—” he starts.

“Please excuse me.” she says.

Her stomach is roiling, and her head must not be sitting right on its axis, because the world seems to have tipped sideways, but she is determined to lose it in front of the others.

“Where are you going?” Cassandra demands as Evelyn turns away from them.

She doesn’t answer—just walks into the trees bordering the field with a straight back. Evelyn finds a bush hidden from view, and promptly (finally) vomits behind it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****LAST EDITED as of 07/02/2015****
> 
> Want to see some bonus art? Like my writing and have a drabble request? Feel free to follow my trash blog of Dragon Age bobs and bits over at my tumblr, [Random Bits of Cheese](http://www.randombitsofcheese.tumblr.com).


	10. Chapter 10

Evelyn spends her time in the Fallow Mire playing a game of distractions.

When she wakes up in the mornings with her improbable group of companions—this enormous Qunari mercenary, and this runaway Tevinter mage-not-magister, and this ex Right Hand of the bloody Divine—she pretends that it isn’t happening, takes herself far away to an imaginary game of chess with Grand-mère out on the lawns of the Val Royeaux estate.

( _“ _Honestly, ma bichette. What were you thinking with such an obvious feint?”_  Grand-mère would say, like she had so many times before._

 _“I miss you so much it hurts,”_ _Evelyn would reply, “I wish you were here to tell me what to do.”_ )

When her toe slips on the water’s edge, or sometimes it is someone else’s, and they are set upon by hordes of the undead, Evelyn lets her body take over the motions of notch-then-shoot and sends herself away to revisit the best passages of Genitivi’s collected works. Waves of her arrows pierce decaying bodies of those who once lived in peace along these shores, but she is too busy speculating wild theories about the lost Kingdom of Barindur or the legend of the ever-distant Windline Marcher to worry on it.

When they run into the Inquisition scouts who bring them increasingly grave reports of Avvar activity in Hargrave Keep, Evelyn nods at them vaguely, already off reliving her best tavern visits in Tantervale. She fills her head with the laughter of the Hound’s Teeth mercenary company, all of them fixed in her mind’s eye as the most beautiful group of elves she could never truly be a part of.

Within her scattered memories, she can be _plain Evelyn_ reading in the archives, _cheeky Evelyn_ scampering among the grape trellises of Grand-mère’s vineyard, _rebellious Evelyn_ causing grief for the Chantry racket. She doesn’t have to be out on this shaky limb of Inquisition support, ex-communicated from her family, or waiting for more news of conspiracy.

It is such a powerful delusion, that it would starve Evelyn out of the present entirely if it were not for Cassandra’s constant, mulish interference. The Seeker wants to  _talk_ about everything constantly.

“Herald, tell me more of what you remember of the time leading up to the Conclave. Did you notice anything suspicious?”

and

“Are you absolutely certain you have never head of this _B_ person?”

and

“Lady Josephine is working to cut trade ties between the Montilyets and the Trevelyans as we speak. That will send a firm message about our stance, I think.”

Evelyn’s only defense is a thin veil of ignorance and the continual use of phrases like _sorry, wasn’t listening, what?_ , and _oh, no clue, none at all._

It works surprisingly well. Cassandra’s frustration with the obtuse deflection rises like a tide and her disgruntled growls hit a frequency reminiscent of their pre-truce days. Evelyn can’t tell if that niggle in her stomach is satisfaction or guilt.

(Probably satisfaction. It  _is_ Cassandra, after all.

Yes. It must be.)

=== === ===

She receives a missive one night at camp. The hand that wrote it is messy and rushed.

_Herald,_

_The mages are now fully prepared for the approach on the Breach. We have also received information from Leliana’s spies which you may find interesting. Discussion pending on your return._

_\- Commander Cullen_

Evelyn writes her response in a rush of annoyance.

_Commander,_

_The weather here in this plague ridden bog has been just lovely. Wandering through an empty fishing village is not depressing at all! Thanks for asking._

_We are all having a lovely time here thanks to our_ _~~violent~~ _ _welcoming hosts. For an army of corpses, they are an awfully lively bunch._

_I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciated your thoughtful letter. Such eloquence. Such graceful penmanship. And my mind is so much more at ease now that I know_ _that ~~you couldn’t be bothered to actually tell me what’s going on~~_ _you and the others have everything under control. Thanks ever so for your consideration._

_Daisies and Butterfly Kisses,_

_Evelyn_

She doesn’t mean to send it along. It’s just a fast scribble to vent her frustration. But when she goes looking for it later, it is nowhere to be found. She could have sworn that she had left it on the requisition table.

After Evelyn spends an inordinate amount of time shuffling the papers on the table around, a scout cheerfully informs her that he has taken the liberty of sending the letter along for her.

Her stomach drops down to her knees, and stays there until she receives his response at the next encampment.

_Herald,_

_Your undiminished sarcasm can only reassure me that you are perfectly well. I can only advise you to try not to have too much fun._

_\- Commander Cullen_

For a reason she can’t place—perhaps because she was so fully expecting his anger at her irreverence rather than his mild playfulness—this has her snorting giggles periodically for the next day, garnering strange looks from the others.

She tells herself it really isn’t that funny, even as she tucks the note tucked inside her boot so she can pull it out whenever she needs a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****LAST EDITED as of 07/02/2015****
> 
> Want to see some bonus art? Like my writing and have a drabble request? Feel free to follow my trash blog of Dragon Age bobs and bits over at my tumblr, [Random Bits of Cheese](http://www.randombitsofcheese.tumblr.com).
> 
> **previously featured art moved to my tumblr under ART TAG**


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